


The syntax of things

by dotfic



Series: syntaxverse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-27
Updated: 2009-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "Lucifer Rising," Sam and Dean take refuge at Bobby's, where the boys start to learn to be brothers again while they plan their next move. Chuck shows up with an injured Castiel, forcing Dean to deal with his conflicted feelings. Meanwhile, the apocalypse has started, the death count is rising, and Lucifer is determined to get at Sam. But hiding only works for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The syntax of things

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Whumpage. Also note: suggestion of intent to dub-con or non-con; a scene where a character is restrained includes sexual suggestiveness.
> 
> This fic references one particular piece of fanon from one of my prior stories (The Boy's Still Running), but you don't have to have read that to read this. Some of the concepts here about Castiel's vessel and how angels work are the collective brainchild of smilla02, aesc, and dotfic. Oh, also, we blame Misha Collins (for so many things). Title from e.e. cummings.
> 
> Betaing, encouragement, hand-holding, and suggestions by smilla02 and aesc, who deserve many pitchers of iced tea, plus pie. <3<3<3

A few yards from the fence at the eastern edge of Bobby's property, Dean dipped the brush into the can of white paint. He finished applying the circle on the boulder, a new kind of anti-demon ward Bobby had discovered, then added the markings to match the picture in the book Sam held out for him. The dirt road that ran along Bobby's property was a brown ribbon beneath a cloudless, harsh blue sky. It was two weeks since St. Mary's, and back at the house, the dogs had been restless, sniffing the wind and growling.

"You want another beer?" Sam bent down to reach into the cooler, book held open in his left hand.

Dean nodded and Sam handed him a bottle, the glass cold to touch and wet with melted ice. They never brought any of the dogs out with them, even though Bobby always said they ought to, but Dean wasn't as comfortable around them as he once was. It was a relief to be away from them, even for a little while. Bobby had six of them now--he used to keep just one or two at a time.

Not that this was a bad idea, what with the demonic activity spiking across the midwest. Dogs weren't much good in a face-off with demons, but they were a great warning system.

"How'd you sleep last night?" Dean asked, popping the bottle cap with his ring. He took two long, slow gulps.

"Crappy." Sam settled onto the boulder, careful not to smudge the wet paint of the protection sign.

It was the decisive, matter-of-fact way Sam said it that got to Dean. No hesitation, no denials, and nothing in his tone that sounded like a shut-down. Dean took another swallow of beer and felt grateful for the small things.

"The dreams again?"

"Yeah." Sam's hand clenched and unclenched, and then his fingers gripped his knee.

A breeze swept over them and the sweat on the back of Dean's neck chilled him. "Tell me," he said, fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, feeling his leg and shoulder muscles tense as if he were braced for an attack.

"Like the one I had a few days ago. Like I could hear him whispering. Calling me." Sam's hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "When I wake up all the way, I can't hear him any more." He lowered his hand. "As soon as I'm about to drift off, there he is."

"Shit, that's creepy, Sam. You see him this time?"

"No, not last night. I only heard him."

"Maybe because we added more wards."

Dean looked up at the sky, at that particularly sharp blue that seemed to cut through him, and stifled the thought before he could have it, disregarded the way his stomach clenched. He had enough to worry about with Sam's dreams, and hundreds of demons bold from Lucifer's release, and them not knowing what Lucifer might do next.

They were screwed. They were so screwed.

Freakin' angel could look after himself, and if Dean was wondering about him, it was only because he might be useful providing answers.

"You need wards against angels too," a voice said behind him, familiar but not the one he'd expected (been hoping for).

He hadn't even felt the displacement of air or heard her wings; Dean turned and Anna was there, her head tilted in a way that made him think of Castiel as she studied the sigils painted on the boulder and on the fence posts.

"I hate when you guys do that," Dean said. "Worse than freakin' Batman."

Sam put his beer bottle on the dusty ground and stood up, shoulders tense.

"Lucifer and his people haven't found this place yet." Anna walked over to the boulder and knelt, red hair falling over one shoulder as she studied the symbols he'd just painted, still gleaming wet in the sunlight.

Dean couldn't help it, his mind flashed on the memory of her mouth on his, the smooth heat of her skin under his fingers. He was pretty sure Anna wasn't thinking about the same thing; if she did it was probably part of a mix of small memories, like some terrific chocolate cake or a really great song she'd heard once.

Or maybe not, but Dean was never going to ask.

"It's not just demons you have to hide from, it's the angels too." She grabbed a stick and traced two patterns into the dirt. "This place needs to stay invisible."

Then Anna got to her feet and looked at Sam, corners of her mouth down-turned.

"Don't even say it," Sam said, his voice gone soft and bitter.

"Do you understand what it is you've unleashed?"

"Yes," Sam said.

She bit her lower lip; she seemed surprised at that blunt, accepting response.

"Castiel's gone silent on angel radio," Anna said.

"What do you mean, silent?" There it was again, that weird twist in Dean's gut.

"I mean, silent. He's gone off the air. That's...bad." Anna nudged at a pebble with the toe of her boot.

"How bad?" Sam asked, because Dean hadn't.

"I don't know. He might be dead or alive." Her voice faltered, then steadied. "I don't know. It does mean...I guess that his _mind_ is out to lunch. Angels don't sleep but it's like he's asleep. Or unconscious. He betrayed me," she added, her voice going small and hard. "But because of what he did for you, how he helped you, I thought you'd want to know."

If she expected Dean to thank her for the information, or acknowledge that yes, he did want to know, Anna gave no sign; she took a few steps away from them, facing into the wind.

"Add the sigils," she said.

Dean blinked. There was the sound of a wing beat, a stir of wind, but he hadn't seen her go; she was just gone.

* * *

When they got back to the house, Bobby looked grim. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face and beard before he spoke.

"Rufus called." He looked from Sam to Dean, and Dean tasted something sour in the back of his throat. It was never good news when Rufus called. "Angel and demon battle outside North Platte. There's a whole block of buildings on fire."

Next to Dean, Sam's shoulders hunched. "Any deaths?"

"Nothing confirmed," Bobby said.

"That's near Ellen's new place," Dean said, another layer of worry falling into place over the rest.

"Yeah, well, I told her to get Jo and come here but she refused. Said no godamned demons were going to drive her from her home again, and no angels neither." Bobby's voice softened. "Stubborn woman. She checked in an hour ago; she and Jo are fine."

Letting out a breath, Dean began to gather up the books and papers strewn on the couch, just for something to do. One of them lay open to an engraving of angels, and Dean stopped, staring down at it.

Sam came over and also picked up a few books. "He's probably okay," he said quietly.

Dean snapped the book shut, sending up a little cloud of dust. "Oh, yeah. Uh, sure," he said, trying to sound like he hadn't been thinking about that at all.

* * *

They spent the next afternoon adding more of Anna's symbols on the fence posts, until the property was warded all the way around. Dean was getting sunburned no matter how much block he used, the skin on his face and his arms growing tight and starting to peel, while Sam's skin darkened evenly, the lucky son of a bitch.

He liked being out here with Sam in the open spaces of South Dakota. They couldn't keep it up forever, but for now, while they figured out what to do, there was a security and freedom in being invisible. It bugged the hell out of him to think that way, so many hunters coming and going the past few weeks, some injured, risking their necks while he and Sam kept themselves safely bottled.

"I had another one of the dreams last night," Sam said, paintbrush sweeping in an arc against the wooden post. "Guess he got through because we didn't finish painting all the symbols last night."

"Tell me," Dean said, his work stilling.

Sam continued to paint. "He told me to come to him. He said he could make it okay."

"Hope you told him to go fuck himself."

"Not in those exact words, but that was the gist of it."

Yeah, for now here was where they were going to stay. Lucifer wasn't getting anywhere near Sam.

* * *

The aroma of the huge pot of chili Bobby had made filled the kitchen. It made Dean's mouth water. The sun was setting in a way that turned the clouds gold when the dogs started growling outside.

Bobby and Dean each took a shotgun, while Sam tucked the Glock into the back of his jeans, and together the three of them went out onto the porch.

A dirty, battered GTO going much too fast for a dirt road turned into the salvage yard, kicking up a cloud of dust. Bobby flicked his hand: he didn't recognize the car. He and Dean raised their shotguns, while Sam drew the Glock.

The car stopped, the dust cleared, and Dean lowered the shotgun, recognizing the figure in the passenger seat. "Wait," he said, moving forward a step. "Wait, that's..."

"Hey!" The driver opened the door, got out, and started to run towards the porch. "Guys, I could use some help here."

"Chuck?" Sam lowered his gun.

"You know him?" Bobby looked skeptical.

"Hi Sam, Dean." Chuck lifted a hand, looking more haggard than when they'd first met him. His beard was thicker and his hooded sweatshirt had a big rip in one sleeve. He pointed at the car. "Got some trouble, here, guys. It's Castiel."

Holding the shotgun down at his side, Dean went down the porch steps. He saw how still the figure in the passenger seat was, head slumped and eyes closed, unruly dark hair pressed flat against the window. Castiel still wore that same trenchcoat and suit.

Dean pushed past Chuck and got the passenger door open. "Cas?" Dean touched his shoulder and got no response. There were rips in the coat, along with dark streaks like the fabric had been singed. Dean put his fingers against Castiel's throat. A pulse beat warm and steady.

"What happened?" Sam had put the Glock away and was now at Dean's shoulder.

"He's been fighting other angels," Chuck said, hugging his arms like he was cold. "Fought them off at my place, holy fucking hell, you should've seen that." His eyes got a little wild. "My house is toast, man. I wrote it all down after in a spiral notebook, all of it, it was unbelievable. But you know, our boy here, he's not exactly a soldier. More like a tactician. He drove them off by cheating, I guess. Used these weird symbols."

Dean heard Chuck's words like they were at the other end of a tunnel. He hooked Castiel's arm across his shoulder, drew his limp body out of the car. Castiel felt warm, and he didn't weigh very much; Dean wasn't sure why he expected him to be heavier. It seemed easiest to do it that way, so Dean picked Castiel up, his head resting against Dean's shoulder, and went up the porch steps into the house. Sam held the door open.

"The archangels landed on my fucking house, or that's what it felt like" Chuck said, following them. "Castiel cut his arm open, traced some symbols on my kitchen floor, grabbed me, and next thing I know, I'm standing in the middle of a cornfield in Iowa. Nearly tossed my cookies. What a ride. He told me he had to keep the archangels' attention on him." Chuck added, voice shaky. "And he needed me to do it."

Dean lowered Castiel to the couch. His head slumped to the side against the back cushion, and his body still felt boneless beneath Dean's hands. Dean let go, staying in a crouch as he rubbed his knuckles against his chin.

"The archangels thought you were being threatened," said Sam.

"Yeah, Castiel's not exactly a favorite with the angel establishment right now." Dean watched the way Castiel's chest rose and fell with each breath. "He's on heaven's Ten Most Wanted List, and you're a prophet."

"I get it," said Chuck, and dropped into a chair like his legs had given out. "Okay, so we have to steal a car, because he says he can't just fly me everywhere, and we leave my place pretty damn fast, and meanwhile these fucking _archangels_ keep following us around. Every few days Castiel lets them catch up right before he banishes them. Keeps them jerking on a string for days." Chuck sat back and rubbed his hands over his face. "Archangels are kind of one-trick ponies, did you know that? I didn't know that. They're not too bright. Can I get a drink? Anyway, Castiel starts getting tired and I ask him why not stop, and he says he can't. Yesterday, Castiel goes bye-bye and then the other personality, the owner of the body--Jimmy--he's in the car next to me, all confused, wants to know where he is, who the hell I am...then he passes out, and Castiel's back, but really weak, he can barely move. I really, really need a drink. An angel with MPD, shit."

Dean pushed up Castiel's sleeve. Two long, thin wounds crossed his arm, half-healed. He checked the other arm, same thing.

"Thank you," Chuck said with enthusiasm, as Bobby handed him a glass of bourbon. Dean had noticed Bobby adding holy water; when Chuck knocked it back in three gulps and blinked a few times, Bobby's shoulders relaxed.

Letting go of Castiel's arm, Dean said to Bobby, "Hey, uh, is there...do you know anything we should be doing for him?"

"Not exactly an expert on angels, let alone sick ones," Bobby said. "But I'll check." He held the bottle of bourbon out to Sam. "Maybe some of this will help him." After a sharp glance at the figure lying on the couch, Bobby retreated to a corner with a stack of books.

The sun was almost gone, the last rays slanting through the windows. The light caught the dust motes and fell over Castiel's face. It made him look less human, like something in a painting. Dean took the glass of bourbon Sam handed him, put his hand behind Castiel's head, and tilted the liquid into his mouth.

For a moment it looked like he was too far gone to even swallow, but then he stirred, gulped, and coughed. His eyes opened and Dean found himself fixed in a blue-eyed stare. The room seemed to grow smaller, and even with the sunlight it felt like the quiet before a thunderstorm begins.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said, voice rasping but calm. Then his eyes widened with realization and he struggled to sit up.

Dean gripped his shoulders. "Hold on, what're you doing?"

There was no mistaking the expression on Castiel's face--alarm, verging on terror. He looked from Dean to Sam to Chuck. "I can't be here. They'll follow. I can't be here."

He kept fighting, and Dean shoved him down. "Stay put. We've got anti-angel wards. Anna showed us."

Castiel drew in a sharp breath. "Anna. She was here?"

"Yeah," said Sam. "She told us you'd gone quiet and she showed us how to paint sigils that would keep this place off the angelic radar."

"Which is why your archangel buddies haven't arrived to nuke my place," Bobby said, pouring two inches of bourbon for himself. He knocked it back in one gulp.

"Then how come he got in?" Chuck pointed at Castiel.

Sam sat in a wooden chair, rotating the glass in his hands. The amber liquid looked darker in the fading sunlight. "Because he was weakened, unconscious."

"So Cas, dude. Chill," Dean said, the words coming out sharp and nervous, when he'd intended to be mocking.

"Anna," Castiel said.

"She said you betrayed her." Dean stood up and moved away, back of his throat feeling tight.

"I did. I failed her completely. I'm glad she's okay." Castiel was sitting up, but his voice was weaker than it had been a few moments ago.

Dean wanted to ask another question, but without any warning, Castiel's eyes shut and he slumped forward. Dean caught him before he could fall. "You got any suggestions?" He glared at Chuck.

"Don't look at me." Chuck came over to take the bottle of bourbon. "I haven't had a vision in weeks. I have no idea what happens next."

* * *

They could've taken angel-watch in shifts, but Dean figured that since he'd asked for Castiel's help, and he'd granted it, Dean could cover it, let Sam and Bobby and Chuck sleep.

At some point far into the night, curled up in the armchair, Dean heard the floorboards creak. He recognized Sam's steps before he felt the heaviness of a blanket going over his chest and shoulders.

Dean drifted off again, and a few hours later startled awake and couldn't figure out why until he saw that Castiel was awake too, his head turned towards Dean as if he'd been watching him sleep.

"I wish I could've led them off for longer," Castiel said, turning away from Dean to stare up at the ceiling. His voice rasped from his throat. "They'll be able to stay to their mission now."

"And what's that?"

Castiel gaze returned to Dean. "I think you already know. They want _you_ , they need you to play your part so heaven can win."

"What if I don't want to play?"

"They will work upon you until you do."

Something in Castiel's voice made Dean clench his jaw, holding back a shiver. "Is that what they did to you?"

But Castiel didn't answer.

"Hey, Cas?" Dean said softly. "Thank you."

There was a long silence, broken by the hum of Bobby's fridge compressor clicking on.

"For what?" Castiel said.

"For Sam."

Neither of them said anything else. After a while, Dean fell asleep, nestled under the blanket.

* * *

In the morning, Chuck left.

"I don't want to be archangel bait any more. Great material, but it's kind of exhausting. I've had enough. I hope--I hope he'll be okay," he said, looking past Dean and Sam to where Castiel was still asleep on the couch.

"If you get a vision, something that'll help us figure out what Lucifer's up to," Dean said, "call us."

"I don't want any more visions," Chuck said, eyes haggard. Then he paused at the door and looked from Dean to Sam, his eyes going brighter. "Although, you guys are a pretty great story."

He walked out. After a moment they heard the GTO's engine start up and the car drive away.

* * *

Bobby rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. He let the book he'd been reading drop to the desk's surface with a thump. "Hell. I don't have a clue what's going on with your angel friend. Maybe we should try giving him more hard liquor," Bobby said drily.

Sam picked up one of the books. "It's like he's recharging. The battles with the archangels wore him out."

Standing with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, Dean couldn't seem to stop watching Castiel, the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He looked like he was only asleep, except when they'd called to him, when Dean had shaken his shoulder, he hadn't stirred.

Helping Dean out of the green room was one thing but Castiel doing this to himself, the reasons he'd done it, that was beyond. Dean didn't know what to do with it. He took a book from Bobby's desk and settled on the floor with his back against the couch.

"I didn't have any Lucifer dreams last night," Sam said, turning over a page. His face, when he looked at Dean, was wide open with hope.

After a hesitation, Bobby spoke. "It's because of the new wards, son. Lucifer was once an angel. Maybe the demon wards weren't enough to keep his consciousness out completely. They were enough that he couldn't seem to tell where you were, even if he could talk to you. But now that we've put up demon and angel wards, he can't even get into your head."

"Good," said Dean. "It's going to stay that way."

Castiel's eyes opened. Then he sat up and put his feet on the floor. It happened so abruptly Dean scrambled to his feet, dropping the book, Sam's head went up sharply, and Bobby knocked over his cup of coffee, spilling dark liquid over the desk.

"Son of a bitch," Bobby said, snatching away his precious old volumes.

On the couch, Castiel held his head in his hands, shoulders hunched. "Castiel?" He got to his feet with quick, careless movements. "Castiel!" The bewilderment on his face was familiar.

Dean took a step closer. "Jimmy?"

"Yeah," Jimmy said. He walked past Dean, looking around the room, taking in the bookshelves, the desk, and then Sam and Bobby. "Where am I?"

"My place," Bobby said laconically. "Name's Bobby Singer. And you are?"

"Jimmy. Jimmy Novak." He paced past Bobby, walking almost to the stairs before turning and walking back.

"He's Castiel's host," said Dean, the words feeling thick and heavy in his mouth.

Walking past Dean, Jimmy barely glanced at him before he sat down on the couch again and ran his fingers through his hair. He huffed out a breath. "Something's not right," he said. "I'm me," he said, putting his hands to his chest. "But Castiel..."

"Where is he?" Dean felt his jaw tighten and a lurch of déjà vu.

Jimmy took a few slow breaths. "He's in here. It's like a weight. It's hard to explain." He got up and started to pace again, to the desk, back to the couch. "But he's definitely in here. I guess he's out cold, or something." He blinked, then looked around the room again. "How did we--how did I--wind up here anyway?"

"You don't remember anything?" said Sam.

"My daughter. I didn't want him to take my daughter. I remember how much it hurt, the blood--after that it's kind of disjointed and I don't remember much of anything."

Bobby walked into the kitchen and came back with the bourbon and a glass. "Here. You'll probably need this."

Jimmy waved it away.

"What _do_ you remember?" Dean hadn't realized how much he wanted Jimmy to be able to tell him something, give him an idea of what was going on in Castiel's mind, until Jimmy shook his head.

"Almost nothing. You need to understand, it's all just impressions. Light, sound, speed, sometimes a snatch of emotion, but it's hard to explain the things I've felt." He looked down at his hands, then pushed up his sleeves and his eyes widened as he saw the pale scars. "He's always healed me before, I know that much." Jimmy looked up and met Dean's gaze for the first time. "Why didn't he heal me?"

Sam picked up the book Dean had dropped and set it on Bobby's desk. "He can't. Not yet. He's ill, or injured. Maybe just exhausted."

Tracing the thumb of his left hand along the scar on his right arm, Jimmy was silent for a long while, and then he said, "So I'm me, for a little bit? Can I..."

"Don't think so," said Dean. "Archangels are hunting him, and Lucifer's on the rise." He turned away from Jimmy, feeling like a complete asshole for killing the eagerness in his face, telling him he couldn't go to his family. "There's a horde of demons out there who would love to rip an angel in a weakened state to pieces, and they'd tear you apart to get to him."

"There are wards on my place," said Bobby, "which means they can't find him right now, but you step outside, and they'll be on you like that."

Shrugging out of the trenchcoat, Jimmy tossed it carelessly over the back of a chair. "I think I'll take that drink now."

* * *

When he heard the voice, whispering in his dreams, for a panicked moment Dean thought it was Lucifer's. The anti-angel wards had failed somehow, or they'd been broken. Dean struggled to free himself from sleep--he had to get to Sam.

 _Dean._

It wasn't Lucifer. Dean had no idea how he knew that or how he recognized the voice--the sounds weren't identifiable as words--but he did recognize it.

 _Protect him,_ it said.

 _Yeah, already on that._ Then he realized it wasn't Sam the voice was talking about. _Yes, of course_ Dean thought.

 _Good,_ it said, and then: _sorry._

Dean snapped awake, his heart racing. It was still dark outside. His fingers closed around the amulet nestled at his chest. Always seemed strange to wake up in a room by himself and not in a cheap motel with Sam asleep in the other bed. The musty quiet of Bobby's house surrounded him, and his heartbeats slowed.

He wondered what, specifically, Castiel was apologizing for.

* * *

In the morning, Dean wondered if it was only a dream. Holding his toothbrush on the way to the bathroom, he stopped by Sam's room and told him about it.

"Weird," said Sam.

"I'll say."

"They didn't sound like words?" Sam sat on his bed with one knee bent and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his fingers.

"Man, I don't know. No, they didn't sound like words, not in my head. More like sounds, but I knew what they meant. Plus, I recognized it, like, I dunno. Sort of like a song I've heard a million times before."

Sam thought for a moment. "Maybe it was his real voice, only just in your head so it didn't make your ears bleed or blow out the windows."

"Maybe." Dean felt it again, inside his head, the way the voice sounded as it said _sorry_.

"Hey." Sam tugged at Dean's shirt, and Dean's attention snapped back into place. "You want scrambled eggs or sunny side up?"

* * *

Jimmy declared Bobby's chili the best he'd ever tasted, busied himself reading, kept pacing and going to the window. He wore jeans and a t-shirt borrowed from Dean, and barely looked at him. The jeans fit, but the t-shirt hung loose on his shoulders and across his chest.

On the third day, Jimmy sat turning the pages of the illuminated manuscript he had open in front of him, shaking his head. "The apocalypse, huh? I mean, I've been religious all my life, read the Bible, been ridden by an angel...but the actual apocalypse? The end times?"

"Pretty much, unless we figure out how to stop it." Sam's voice was quiet and tight as he sat opposite Jimmy at the messy kitchen table, scribbling notes.

"So, kill the beast. Kill Lucifer."

"Can't," said Bobby.

"There must be some way to do it."

"No, I mean, we can't." Sam put down his pen. "We do that, heaven wins, earth becomes a new paradise, most of humanity gets wiped out."

"Oh," said Jimmy. His expression darkened. "But God..."

"God's out on a really long beer run," Dean said, leaning against the sink.

Jimmy looked more confused. He bit his lower lip, then shook his head in an un-Castiel-like way, as if he thought they'd all gone insane.

Through the window, Dean watched the sunlight dying across Bobby's yard, the way it caught the chrome on the old cars. The dogs were sprawled in the dirt, awake but restful, snouts resting on their paws. He used to play with earlier generations of Bobby's dogs when he was a kid.

The phone rang, and Dean heard Bobby pick it up in the other room. "Rufus, you jackass. What's the four-one-one...aw, shit. How many...okay." Bobby hung up and called out to them, "Chattanooga. Eight dead, demons went into a diner and slaughtered the cook, the waitresses, and a few customers."

Dean's grip tightened around the edge of the sink, a sour taste on his tongue. He felt it pull at him, the need to be out there instead of in here. He watched how Sam's head bent over his work, hair falling to cover his eyes. They couldn't go, not with Lucifer waiting for Sam.

Jimmy put his hand on his stomach and his head went up, eyes widening. "Uh, guys?"

"What?" Sam blinked, startled as he dragged his attention from his work.

"It's Castiel." Jimmy got to his feet so quickly he almost tipped over his chair. He turned and gripped the back of it, breath going faster.

Outside, the dogs started to bark, and Bobby appeared in the kitchen door while Sam got to his feet.

When Jimmy's knees gave way, Dean grabbed his arms. Jimmy's eyes met Dean's, really looking at him for the first time. The dissonance jolted him, how his eyes were Castiel's, but different--with Jimmy he felt like he could see all the way in, instead of just the top layer of something he'd never comprehend.

"Dean." Jimmy grabbed Dean's shirt. "It's the actual apocalypse, and people are dying. If he still needs me for now, then I can do this, I don't mind that much, for a while longer. But please." Jimmy's fingers twisted into the cotton. "I want to go home. Not in a hundred or a thousand years, when my wife and my little girl are dead. Soon."

Dean felt his mouth go dry.

"Please, promise me, you'll talk to him. See if he can work something else out--"

"Yeah, I promise."

Then Jimmy's head snapped back and he slumped against Dean.

Jimmy's eyes opened, and Jimmy was Castiel instead, fingers still twisted into Dean's shirt. His body gave off more heat than Jimmy's had a moment ago, his shoulder leaning on Dean's chest, his legs against Dean's. The eyes were all Castiel's this time.

It gave Dean a twist of guilt as he felt _glad_ about it. He'd actually missed Castiel, even if he was still kind of a dick.

Bobby's kitchen seemed smaller and Dean could've sworn that for a second the dying sunlight flickered. Stupid, the whole thing was stupid. Dean let go first, and Castiel unclenched his fingers with slow dignity and straightened up. It seemed strange seeing Castiel in the clothes Jimmy had put on.

"Feeling better?" Bobby said from the doorway, his eyebrows rising until they vanished beneath the brim of his cap.

"Yes, thank you," said Castiel, as if he'd had a friggin' head cold or something. Dean almost laughed.

Sam went right back to his notes, but Dean noticed he didn't scribble so fast now, and he rubbed his hand over his forehead, expression distant in a way that was different from his research fever face.

* * *

From the porch, Sam was a shadowy outline, sitting on the hood of the Impala with his knees bent. Dean walked across the yard, not sure what he was going to say, or how to begin this, but after the past year, Dean was okay with running in head-on even if it screwed things up.

He stood in front of the Impala and almost said something sarcastic like _practicing your brooding skills?_ but then he got a good look at Sam's face.

"You want to talk?" Dean stayed where he was, a few yards off and facing his brother, wanting to approach but feeling like maybe he shouldn't yet.

"People are dying, and we're just sitting here." Sam picked a dead leaf off the Impala and flung it like it was a stone.

"It sucks, yeah, but..."

"I started it, Dean. People are dying because of me, and Jimmy can't go home--if the apocalypse hadn't started, he probably could. And the things I did." Sam's voice went shaky.

Crawling up onto the Impala, Dean settled with his shoulder brushing Sam's. "I told you, but people make horrible mistakes. I get it, I get why you did it. Would've done the same, if it were me," Dean added in a low voice.

Next to him he heard Sam make a small sound, a sniff, and wondered if he was crying but did him the favor of keeping his eyes towards the house.

"That fake voice mail--" he heard Sam draw in a shaky breath.

"Fake. Fake-a-roonie. Mcfake sandwich with the secret fake sauce. We've been over this."

Sam coughed. "Still, it doesn't change the facts. I broke the seal. I did it."

"So did I. The first one." The too-heavy knot formed in his stomach, frightening and by now familiar, the weight he always felt when he thought about this. "Like all big brothers, I get to do the cool stuff first."

Another voice came out of the half-darkness beside them.

"I knew," Castiel said. They both turned to see him standing a few yards away beneath a small crooked tree. "I found out the angels' true plan. My doubts..." Castiel looked up at the sky, where stars were emerging as the last light died at the horizon. "Made me question, look harder at things, and I found out the truth."

He took a step towards the Winchesters, then stopped as if unsure if he should come closer. "That was the message I was about to give you when they took me back to heaven. They didn't torture me. They persuaded me. So I carried the knowledge of what we were doing. I knew about Lilith and the final seal, and I not only didn't tell you, I helped it along." Castiel wasn't wearing a coat, and he hugged his arms in a human gesture. "Sam Winchester, it's not blame that falls on you. And it's not fate," he added, looking right at Dean. "Unless you can call a convergence of mis-steps and circumstance fate."

"Maybe that's all fate really is," said Sam, voice low.

But Castiel had already faded away into the dusk.

* * *

After breakfast the next morning (where Castiel ate his scrambled eggs in slow, small, careful bites like someone performing a duty), Castiel let Bobby ask questions while Sam typed on his laptop and sometimes asked one of his own. It didn't take long before Sam and Bobby got into an argument over a detail in a codex like the geeks they were, and they would've gone at it for hours except Castiel coughed, interrupted them, and told them the answer.

Turned out Sam was right. Great, the kid would be insufferable now, like he didn't already know how smart he was.

Dean finished cleaning the guns, which didn't need to be cleaned because they hadn't been fired in weeks, but he cleaned them again anyway, as Bobby and Sam got into an argument about John Wycliffe.

"We need a perimeter check," Dean said. "I'll do it."

Sam and Bobby stopped talking, and then Sam, Bobby, and Castiel were all staring at Dean. Jesus, now they were all doing it. "What, I got something on my face?"

"You're not going alone," said Bobby.

"It'll have to wait." Sam crossed out a word on the page of his notebook and wrote a different one, gaze on the laptop screen. "We've got a lot more material I want to get through today."

"We've got an actual angel of the lord advising us and we're coming up with exactly squat." Bobby tugged off his cap and rubbed at his hair, then secured the cap again. "No offense," he added, glancing at Castiel.

"I haven't been very helpful." Castiel said. "For all my knowledge, it's specialized and I was told only as much as my superiors wanted me to know."

The need to be moving, to be outside the house, was overwhelming. "Okay, it's not like I won't be inside the wards. There's no reason I can't do this by myself. So I'll just go and be back before you--"

Castiel got to his feet. "I will go with Dean."

After a moment of hesitation, Sam nodded. "That works."

"We talked about this last night," Dean said, with an odd feeling of being cornered. "You don't have to drive yourself crazy with the research, Sam. Isn't your vision going blurry?"

"I want to keep working, Dean, I _have_ to, and you can't check the perimeter alone."

Dean watched the way the corners of Sam's mouth drew down with concentration as he started to type.

"You don't have to find all the answers."

"Yes I do," Sam muttered, his fingers tapping away and a note of hurt caught in his voice.

"Sam--"

"Let him be," Bobby said.

It took Dean a moment, and then he got it. Shit, sometimes he was too slow on the uptake. Dean watched his brother typing up notes, and he got it, finally got it.

Seeing Sam drive himself with guilt, reach out and so eagerly grab that weight as if he wasn't good for anything else, made Dean want to stab a lot of demons and angels in the face. But for Sam, that wouldn't feel as bad as Dean telling him _no, stop, you're wrong._ His demon blood had failed him--but if there was one thing Dean's little brother was best at, it was research and the way he'd grab onto a problem, wear it down until it had no choice but to give way.

"So the guy with wings is my wingman on this one? Okey-dokey. Go save the world, geek boy."

"Have fun patrolling, asshole," Sam said. He smiled for the first time in days, and Dean knew he'd chosen right.

* * *

Dean took point, walking along the fence line with Castiel just behind him, sky a perfect, ruthless blue.

They hiked at a steady pace in silence. Bobby's property was big enough it would take a few hours to walk the full perimeter, and Dean started to wish he'd brought his walkman, to play something blood-stirring in his ears.

At a flat rock covered with circles and lines, some of them anti-demon wards, some of them the symbols Anna had showed them, Dean sat and took several gulps from the bottle of water he carried. The wind stung his eyes with grit.

Castiel knelt. It was weird watching him do that otherworldly head-tilt of his while he was dressed in Dean's clothes. He seemed as comfortable in them as in the suit and tie and trenchcoat, like what clothes he wore were completely irrelevant. Dean suddenly thought of Castiel naked, idly curious if he'd be as comfortable like that, and then blinked, banishing the thought real fast.

"This is good work," Castiel said, brushing his fingers across the rock, stopping when he reached Dean's leg. He moved his hand away. The scars on his arms were completely gone.

"Anna showed us how to make those," said Dean.

"I taught them to her, long ago."

Dean had never really wondered about Castiel's life. Thousands of years old--he couldn't even wrap his brain around it. "How old are you, anyway?"

Still crouching, his hands splayed against the rock, Castiel shook his head. "I can't say for sure. Old."

"Okay." Dean finished off the water before thinking that he should probably have asked Castiel if he wanted any. He probably would've refused, natch--but he'd eaten breakfast.

When they continued on, Castiel kept pace with Dean this time instead of walking behind him.

The wind whistled across the road. Castiel's gaze was directed out at the fields, his head tilted as if he were listening to something beyond the wind. His hands curled nearly into fists, then relaxed.

"Inside the barriers, I can't hear them."

Dean felt his stomach twitch, almost like the excitement he felt before an old-fashioned monster hunt, the kind of adrenaline-charged job where he'd have to use all his muscles and physical instincts, and wouldn't have to worry about getting his heart ripped out, literally or figuratively. At the same time, he felt--okay, that wasn't the right word for it, not with Castiel, but close enough--safe.

Maybe he was going nuts.

"Them? You mean angel radio?"

It took Castiel a second to get the joke. He almost smiled. "Yes."

"Well, if you can't hear them, then they can't hear you, which means no archangels on our asses. No Lucifer either."

Dean felt his chest tighten, thinking of Sam, a constant line of fear that chased him, memories of Sam with his eyes gone black, a Sam that wasn't Sam laughing and tied to a chair.

He felt fingers closing warm and tight over his shoulder just above the scar hidden beneath his t-shirt. He turned to see Castiel looking at him as if he knew all of it, as if Dean had said all that out loud. It wasn't the first time Castiel had looked at him like that, but that hadn't kept things from going the way they had, and Dean thought he might as well try to grab onto sand to keep from falling.

"We'd better keep moving," he said, twisting his shoulder out of Castiel's grip.

* * *

Sam and Bobby hadn't found anything in particular by the time they got back to the house, dusty and sweaty. Dean was surprised when Castiel went to the kitchen sink and got himself a glass of water without being told he probably should for the sake of the body he wore. He drank in a perfunctory way.

The days dragged on. Bobby received more reports of demon attacks, while Sam and Bobby kept going through the old books. Sometimes Dean didn't hear Sam's footsteps going down to the hall to his room until well past two in the morning. Dean found them both asleep one early morning with their heads resting on folded arms, papers scattered around them, Bobby at the desk, Sam on the couch.

Meanwhile, things got weird and weirder with Castiel.

Sam outright refused to go the basement, so Dean and Castiel went down to get the two boxes Bobby said he needed, amulets and artifacts and old weapons he hoped would provide some clue. It didn't thrill Dean much to go down there either. The dank mildew scent hit his nose too much like a tomb.

He didn't look at the iron door, and couldn't go near it without his skin crawling.

They found the boxes underneath the stairs. As Dean tugged on one, he saw Castiel's gaze flicker to the door and then quickly return to the shadows under the stairs.

The box Dean wanted to lift was caught, and Castiel shoved in next to him to help tug it free. Castiel's arm brushed along Dean's, his skin radiating warmth in the cool air of the cellar and Dean found himself looking at Castiel's mouth, his nose, the stubble along his jawline, how the bare bulb of the basement light made his face look more angular. He smelled like dried sweat, Bobby's books, and something else dry and clean that reminded Dean of a stone church.

Castiel turned to face Dean and neither of them moved, while Dean suddenly, for no godamned good reason he could possibly imagine, started thinking about what Castiel's mouth might feel like. The skin of Castiel's neck twitched with his pulse, his borrowed neck.

Dean jerked away, letting the box fall.

* * *

It was cabin fever from being cooped up in one place, Dean told himself. Who could blame him, with them hiding in a foxhole because Lucifer wanted into Sam's brain? Lucifer had run them to ground.

Dean went to sit in the Impala, turned the ignition on enough to get power for the radio and cranked the volume up high. It seemed wronger than wrong to have her sitting in Bobby's yard like that instead of devouring highway miles. He ran his fingers over the steering wheel, imagined he felt her coiled and ready to leap.

* * *

"What's up with you?" Sam asked, as they sat on the porch later with a couple of beers. There was no note of accusation, only Sam looking at him like he could see inside him but felt puzzled by what he found there.

"Nothing." Even as Dean said it, it felt like one more betrayal. He turned the beer bottle in his hand.

"Because you seem jumpy."

"I'm not jumpy." Sam jabbed him in the ribs, and Dean startled. "Hey!"

"See? Jumpy."

Dean almost told him, not just about Castiel, but the rest of it. That he was scared of what Lucifer wanted with Sam, that he felt trapped. But right now, he'd rather have this, holding it all off as he sat with his brother watching the sun fall closer to the horizon.

* * *

The worst of it, the very worst, could-the-earth-please-open-up-and-swallow-him-now, maybe the apocalypse wasn't such a bad idea after all, was when he walked out of the bathroom after a shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, hair still wet and drops of water hovering on his skin, just as Castiel was heading past the door.

They nearly crashed into each other in the hall. Dean grabbed the towel more tightly as Castiel's gaze traveled down over his body. Dean felt the heat of a flush rising from his neck into his face, and couldn't seem to move.

Then Castiel turned away, shoulders hunched, as if he'd been caught doing something epically improper and expected an entire regiment of angels to land on his head like a three-ton weight in a cartoon. Dean fled into his room and shut the door firmly behind him.

What the _fuck_.

Okay, the part where Castiel was a guy, that was a little unsettling but it wasn't like Dean had never, ever gone there before, once or twice (three times if he counted that time when he'd been twenty and mind-blowingly drunk). The part where Dean was thinking about doing things to that borrowed body, though, that was a world of no. Even Ruby'd been wearing a meatsuit no one had any use for any longer when Sam had done the nasty with her.

Not that Dean was thinking of doing the nasty with Castiel, he was just restless, needed to be out there burning off excess energy hunting demons, needed to go to a bar and find a hot chick and get himself laid for crying out loud. It was the apocalypse, right? Sex was practically mandatory.

Dean flopped back onto his bed, the springs creaking. He rested his head on the pillow, smelling damp hair and shampoo and his own scent on the sheets. Took himself in hand, and if he thought about Castiel's slim fingers on Dean's skin, his mouth, thought about what it would be like to make Castiel lose himself and moan, how he'd look when he arched his neck as he came, well. Thinking about it wasn't the same as doing.

* * *

Another day of research. Sam's brain had already been a repository of lore about Lucifer for a while, but now he had notebooks and notebooks dedicated to him. He rattled off information, eyes going almost fever-bright as he talked, gesturing with his big hands.

"Stop," Dean said abruptly. "Sam, just stop."

They were sitting on the Impala's hood again. The day was cool, so Dean was wearing his leather jacket while Sam folded his arms against the chill, wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt but not bothering with a jacket or sweater.

Sam's hazel eyes looked too dark in the late afternoon light. "What?"

"You sound..."

"Like Dad?"

"Yeah. He'd get like that sometimes, when he had the scent of something he particularly wanted to hunt down."

Letting out a long breath, Sam straightened his leg, keeping his other knee bent. "I remember." He hesitated. "Is being like him so bad?"

"No." Dean let in the good memories and with it a loss that still hurt so much it could get hard to breathe if he thought about it too long. "No, it's not. But this part, it scares me." He slid off the side of the car, pushed his hands into his pockets. "Don't let Lucifer get to you. He can't be in your head, not here with the protections up, but it's like he's still crawling in some other way. Just--don't let him."

"Of course."

"Sam."

"Okay, yes, I mean it. I won't. I'll be careful."

"Take a break from the research. Watch a movie on the laptop or go for a run or something."

Sam nodded, but Dean felt like things were starting to slip out of his grasp again, spiraling like they had all the past year.

* * *

Reports kept coming in, six more people dead in two days. The news was full of articles on a rise in church attendance, candlelight prayer vigils, reassurances from various law enforcement entities that an investigation was under way as to who was behind all the attacks, and that protection had been stepped up.

Law enforcement had been the latest to die, four FBI agents found bound and slaughtered in the basement of a church in Iowa, their bodies arranged in a ritualistic circle. Dean shut the lid of Sam's laptop a little too hard, thinking about Victor Henriksen.

Bobby and Sam were out walking the perimeter, while Castiel sat at the desk in the kitchen, head bent over an illuminated Bible. He was wearing his dress shirt and slacks, but no tie, and looked ordinary, almost vulnerable, his hair sticking up damp--he must have taken a shower.

Dean got up and walked to the fireplace, trailing his hand over the books on Bobby's desk. He touched the empty bottle of bourbon, not that it had made any of them feel any better.

There was nowhere to go that was far enough or deep enough or safe enough to stop it and Dean was sick of feeling helpless, sick of doing nothing.

He went to lean against the door frame, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans as he watched Castiel turn over the pages of the Bible.

"When you say you helped things along...you let Sam out of the panic room, didn't you?" Dean said.

The angel's hands curled into fists on the open pages. He looked up, right at Dean. "Yes."

Dean felt his jaw go tight. He already knew, or at least, it'd been easy enough to fill that piece in himself, but he hadn't let himself think about it in the specific. It was something an angel would've done; the twist of a water valve, the wiping of memories, the undoing of a lock on an iron door.

Hearing Castiel say it right out, hearing it from him, sent a jolt of quick fury through Dean and something else that hurt badly.

"What good are you?" Now that Dean had started, he couldn't seem to stop. He pushed himself off from the wall and stepped into the kitchen. "Lucifer's out there partying like it's 1999, people are dying, we're sitting here with our thumbs up our asses."

"It's not wise for you and Sam to be outside the circle of protection."

"Sam's just a vessel waiting to happen, isn't he? That's what Lucifer wants, right?"

"We aren't sure what Lucifer wants."

Castiel's voice, so low and steady and sure, always so fucking calm, was too much. Dean took another step, then leaned down and slammed his palms down hard on the table. Dean felt a sick sense of triumph when Castiel's composure broke and he startled.

Dean grabbed Castiel by his shirt and hauled him to his feet, knocking his chair over. "Don't give me that. Don't give me that _you were only told as much as they wanted you to know_ and that you _aren't sure_ bullshit. Bobby and Sam are pretty smart, and I'm not the brightest crayon in the box but I'm no idiot, and we all know what's supposed to happen."

His face inches from Dean's, caught in the wave of Dean's frustration and anger, Castiel's expression stayed composed. Dean wanted to shake him until he finally snapped and lost his shit--never mind that the thought of Castiel losing his shit and going medieval was probably a really, really, _really_ bad idea. He was sick of trying to grab hold of sand.

Then he noticed the way Castiel's jaw was clenched tight, the sadness behind his eyes. Dean suddenly had the sense that he could beat the crap out of him and all Castiel would do would be to give way on the punches so Dean didn't break his knuckles. He'd do it because Dean needed to, and Castiel could take it.

He shoved Castiel, hard enough that he stumbled back against the sink. Castiel recovered with a smooth, controlled movement, and stood breathing hard with his head down, braced for what might happen next.

Dean remembered the line of blood forming on Castiel's arm, the way he'd slammed his bloodied palm against the wall to complete the banishment symbol in the face of Zachariah's glare.

"Forget it. Whatever." Dean went to the back door, yanked it open, and went outside.

As he went past the dogs, walking fast, they started up from their rest with low whines and growls. Dean made a wide arc to avoid them.

The anger that had seemed so white-hot and clear and right five minutes ago now seemed to burn through him quickly and go out, like flashpaper. Dean kept walking, down the dirt aisles between the broken cars, not even sure what he'd been asking Castiel for back there.

That Castiel truly wanted to help him, Dean could accept that as a possibility. There were a lot of other possibilities too.

But he knew one certainty for sure, and it frightened him.

Not that Castiel _wanted_ to help; that Dean _needed_ him to want to.

* * *

The fireflies were blinking in the night, the trees at high summer thickness, the chain of the swing where Dean sat cool to touch. The playground was otherwise empty, no slide, no jungle gym, no sandbox, just the trees and the swings in the middle of an open field.

He pushed his feet against the ground, and the metal creaked as he swayed back and forth.

Dean recognized the sounds he heard that started quieter than the creaking and then grew louder. Like words, only not. They resolved into a spoken syllable: _Dean_.

A moment ago the swing next to him had been empty and now Castiel sat there, hands gripping the chains.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said.

"I'm dreaming, right? You're in my dream?" He dug the toe of his boot into the dirt and stopped swinging.

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Do you want me to leave?"

Dean traced the links of the chain with his thumb and forefinger, feeling where the sautered joins were, the nicks in the metal. "Nah, you can stay."

"Good." Castiel looked down at his shoes. He was wearing the suit and trenchcoat, the tie almost straight. Then a crease deepened into his cheek and he added, more softly, "good."

It was a smile.

"So am I..." Dean didn't know how to ask what he was asking. He watched a firefly land on his bare arm, the glow forming a tiny circle of amber on his skin. "Am I dreaming all this or are you...I mean..."

"You are not controlling my actions here," Castiel said. "I'm communicating with you, entering your mind, because I thought it would be less...fraught."

At one time Dean might have thought the hesitation in his voice was because he was calculating, looking for the right word to make Dean move where he was supposed to on the chess board. But now he thought that Castiel was having trouble finding the right word that would show Dean what he meant.

Dean knew all about not being able to think of the right words.

"What do you want?" Castiel asked.

Dean got up from the swing and came to stand before him. His hands closed around the chains of Castiel's swing. "I want Lucifer dead or back in his cage. I want Sam to stay Sam." _I want to stop being afraid._ Dean couldn't say it, even in a dream.

"I'll do everything in my power," Castiel said, the words low and rough. It sounded like a vow.

Unclenching one hand from around the swing's chain, Dean grabbed the collar of Castiel's coat, and dragged him up until Dean's mouth covered his. He heard Castiel make a small, startled grunt, and then his fingers closed tight over Dean's where they still held the chain, the skin hot. Dean moved his other hand, curving his palm against the back of Castiel's neck, tugging him closer and Castiel's mouth opened to Dean's tongue.

Dean felt a line of fire rise from his groin up through his chest, wondered that his skin wasn't glowing with some weird light as Castiel's fingers touched his face. Then Dean let go of the chain, his hand pushing the trenchcoat aside, tugging up the white shirt until he slid his palm over Castiel's abdomen. The muscles twitched beneath his touch.

His mouth and tongue growing more insistent, Castiel was on his feet, body pushing against Dean's. Dean felt the palm of Castiel's hand firm against the small of Dean's back, and was startled at the sureness of it. It made Dean feel more sure, stilled the feeling of hurtling too fast towards the edge of a cliff, although he almost wanted stop this, right now, because he couldn't see how it made sense, where it fit. He moved his hands up to hold Castiel's face, his lips exploring down over his cheek, the corner of his mouth, his jaw where Dean brushed his tongue against the stubble.

Castiel's mouth found his again, and then moved down to Dean's neck. Dean heard Castiel murmuring under his breath, forming a word against Dean's skin, and realized it was Dean's name.

* * *

He startled awake, alone in his bed and so hard he ached, blinking at the abrupt switch from darkness to the gray light of pre-dawn. A breeze stirred, making Dean shiver as sweat dried on his neck and forehead. He propped himself up on one elbow, his amulet sliding down from where it had gotten caught against his skin near his shoulder to fall into place against his chest.

"Shit," he muttered, and let his head fall back. "Shit, shit, shit." He banged his head against the pillow with each syllable before his hand slid down under the waistband of his briefs.

* * *

Over the next few days, he barely looked at Castiel, tried to avoid being in the same room with him, and pretended he didn't feel Castiel's gaze against his back when he walked away.

Feeling completely ridiculous, Dean took refuge working on one of Bobby's wrecks, a rusted 1964 Ford Fairlane Thunderbolt that might have a chance of survival. Death, injury, or apocalypse, Dean had always been able to fix cars.

With his head under the hood, attention deep into the engine, he almost didn't hear Sam clearing his throat.

"Hey," Sam said.

Dean drew his head out, saw Sam holding two bottles of beer. He handed one down to Dean, who popped the lid with his ring and leaned against the battered car to drink.

Leaning next to him, Sam squinted in the sun. "So..." he said.

After two long swallows, Dean wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and blurted out, "I had this weird dream about Castiel." Only it wasn't a dream, it was something else, but Dean had no idea how to explain that, or what to call it.

"Weird like before, when you heard his real voice?"

"Just...weird."

"Good weird, or bad weird?" Sam asked.

"Well, it...uh." Dean leaned back over the engine, beer in one hand, adjusting a wire with the other, just for something to do. "It wasn't a bad dream."

"Oh."

"It was kind of...pleasant." He kept his fingers busy on the engine.

"Pleasant?"

Dean coughed. "I guess."

"What ...I mean, was it--oh," Sam said, and when Dean snuck a peek at him, he was staring down into his beer bottle like it might explain everything. "Oh," he said again, more emphatically, then looked hard at Dean. "You mean _pleasant_ pleasant?"

"Kinda," Dean said. "Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not." Sam raised his hands placatingly. "I'm surprised, is all."

"Join the club."

"It's just, he's an angel, and Jimmy--"

"I know that! Jesus."

"Also, since when do you go for guys?"

"I don't. Normally. I mean, a few times, there've been--"

"Got it. No TMI, Dean."

For a few minutes, Sam let Dean work on the engine in peace, while they both worked through their beers. But in typical Sammy style, he couldn't let go of it.

"I don't know if I trust him," Dean said. "He could be playing us still. There's no way to know."

"Well, he did help you." Sam's voice went very quiet. "But I'm probably the last person anyone should listen to on character judgments."

"Sammy, it wasn't your..."

"Yeah, it was. Shut up and let me finish. I don't know what to think--everything seemed right in my head and it was all wrong. But that's exactly why you shouldn't make every decision based on what happened to me."

"God, Sammy, I'm not going to pick out curtains with him or anything. It was just a dream." Dean rubbed his greasy fingers against the rag bunched up on the fender. He hated feeling weak, hated for Sam to see him weak. "He knows how scared I am about Lucifer, about you, and he pretty much swore to protect you."

"Wow," Sam said. He looked out across the landscape of metal, chrome, dust and faded paint jobs. "It's like he's more the way I thought an angel would act now than when he was actually with them."

"I'm scared to believe him." It took some doing, but he managed to add, "I'm scared I want to believe him too much."

"It doesn't matter." Sam lowered his head, hair falling forward and he looked startlingly young for a moment. "I don't want to become something I'm not, but I'm done looking to anyone else to make sure that can't happen. Not even you."

"I'm not enough." Dean's voice came out scratchy. He took another swallow of beer before he went on. "I want to be, God, I really want to be. But all this, Lucifer, the apocalypse, all of it, it really is too big. Both of us, we nearly drowned. You were nearly gone." For a moment he felt Sam's fingers tightening around his throat, felt the blood coursing over his fingers as he twisted the knife in Alastair. He blinked, flinging the memories down.

"I'm not gone," Sam said, and put his hand against Dean's back. Dean let himself lean into the touch, needed the reminder that his brother was there and real and still _Sam_.

Then Dean grabbed a ratchet from the toolbox and went back to work on the engine.

* * *

The woods were the mixed-up colors of fall, reflected on the water. He sat at the end of the dock with his legs dangling off the edge, listening to the birdsong and lap of water. Even before he turned, Dean knew he wasn't alone. Castiel sat a few inches away from him, leaning back on his hands.

Dean knew this place, but whether it was a haven his own mind had created or something Castiel had created for them, he hadn't ever been able to figure out.

"I truly did want peace for you," Castiel said. "Even if I once believed that humanity was being devoured by its own suffering, and needed to be wiped clean for its own good, it made me glad at least that you might be happy."

"Happy?" Dean laughed. "I don't think so."

Giving Dean a sidelong glance, Castiel frowned. "I know that now. That wouldn't have been peace. Not if your brother was damned and lost to you."

"Glad you finally got the fucking memo," Dean bit out the words. The wind ruffled the water, changing its direction and forming patterns on the smooth surface. "Not just Sammy, though." Dean curled his fingers around the edge of the dock, felt the roughness of the wood where it had been cut, the smooth coldness of a nail. "People are crazy, but a lot of them are worth the trouble."

"Saving people, hunting things," Castiel said.

Dean stared at him.

"I read the books, Dean."

"Oh, yeah." It still freaked him out, having his life set down like that in print. Freaked him out even more to realize that Castiel had read them, that Castiel knew things about him. It made him feel too exposed. He wondered how much he knew, how much he could see into Dean beyond what he'd read in Chuck's novels.

"Do you remember how you fought against me when I came to pull you out of Hell?" Castiel asked.

Shit, Dean didn't want to think about that, didn't want to remember what it had felt like to carve into the bodies, to hear the screams, the sick rush of it.

Shame burned through him; no matter how much Sam had screwed up, he couldn't match Dean.

Castiel turned, then reached up and put his hands gently on either side of Dean's face. Dean sucked in a sharp breath, in part startled at the touch, in part sure this was the start of some kind of weird-ass angelic whammy.

But Castiel only moved Dean's head so he had to look him in the eyes. "You said to leave you there, that there were others more worthy." Then he leaned forward, and his lips pressed against Dean's forehead. "Do you still think you're not worth saving?" Castiel murmured.

It was easy, much too easy, to reach up and touch Castiel's face, bringing him down so he could kiss him. Dean meant to do it lightly, just figuring this out, but soon was pushing his tongue hungrily into Castiel's mouth, and after a fumbling moment, Castiel was kissing him eagerly back, clumsy and consuming. He felt Castiel's hands on his thighs, fingers pressing against the denim almost convulsively.

Dean grabbed Castiel's shoulders, shoved him down onto the dock, and straddled him. He found it difficult to breathe, could feel how hard Castiel was against him, or the illusion of Castiel, or whatever this was that looked like Jimmy but felt like Castiel and wasn't really there.

"I don't trust you," Dean said roughly, then bent to kiss him, pushing him down against the boards.

"You shouldn't." Castiel gasped when Dean moved his mouth down to his neck, and arched under his touch.

* * *

He woke at dawn to find the godamned sheets all twisted up and his godamned blanket half on the floor, and he was getting pretty godamned sick of this.

Stupid godamned angel and his stupid mind-meld Vulcan bullshit. A part of his brain whispered that he'd given Castiel permission to be in his dreams; Dean could've asked him to go. Dean could've pushed him away instead of grabbing him and--

Dean turned on his side, making his breathing slow, watching the golden sunlight form patches on the floor. He didn't just feel horny, this morning there was something else, a hollow sense of longing and loss mingled.

 _Do you still think you're not worth saving?_ The feel of lips pressed against his forehead, gentle.

"Fuck it," he said, sitting up, and swinging his feet to the floor.

He headed down the hall to the bathroom and stood under the stream of a cold shower, the water filling his ears until it make a thrumming noise in his head. It helped drive out the images. He thought of highway markers and laundry soap and tacky motel room wallpaper, kept his hands on the soap or braced against the tiles. Dean stayed in the shower until his fingers went wrinkly and he was shivering.

* * *

In a small town near Brookings, the demons who had possessed the members of the city council sealed the doors of the meeting and slaughtered thirty people, including three teenagers.

Bobby got the call from Rufus, and after he hung up, he threw the phone. It crashed against the wall beside the fireplace, and Bobby took a swallow of whiskey before telling them.

Across the room, Sam's eyes met Dean's, and their gazed locked. Dean saw Sam swallow, lips tight--it was the way he looked when he was trying not to puke.

Dean got out the guns and started cleaning them. Castiel, that son of a bitch, frowned like someone had just given him a bad stock market report.

"We have to go," Dean said.

Sam nodded.

"Are you insane?" Bobby gathered up his broken phone and slammed it down onto the desk. "The minute you step out of here, you'll have Lucifer's people and the angels on your ass."

"Sucks to be us," Dean said. Bobby looked like he was working himself up for another rant, so Dean went over and gripped Bobby's shoulder. "We can't hide forever."

* * *

They'd done this several times in the past few weeks, building up Bobby's supply of holy water. Dean wanted to make one more batch for the road. Sam dropped the galvanized tub on the porch with a thump while Dean went to get the hose.

When they were ready, as he had all the other times, Dean tried to hand the journal and rosary to Sam, and the same as all the other times, Sam held up his hands, refusing.

"C'mon, Sammy." No amount of logic had worked the last three times they'd had this argument, and each time had left Sam blinking back tears. Dean pushed anyway. He couldn't live with Sam believing this about himself, that he was so tainted he couldn't do the simplest hunter ritual. "You made holy water a bunch of times in the past year. I watched you do it. Don't pull this crap again."

"No, Dean," Sam said. Dean knew that soft tone, the note of steel beneath it.

"Hey, Cas?" Dean turned to the angel, who leaned against the railing at the far end of the porch, dressed in the suit and trenchcoat. This was the first time they'd done this since he'd been at Bobby's. Dean took a deep breath, not sure if he should be bringing Castiel until this, but maybe he could settle it once and for all. "You want to back me up here?"

"Belief is a powerful force." Castiel pushed away from the railing. "If Sam doesn't believe he can do it, then it won't work."

Sam shot Dean a look, _I told you so_.

"However," Castiel added, "That doesn't mean he is actually incapable of doing it."

Dean looked back at Sam and folded his arms. _See?_

Nobody said anything while the water poured from the hose into the tub. Shit, Dean hated that Sam felt like this. He'd convince him eventually, somehow, make him believe that he was still righteous and still a hunter to the core no matter what was in his blood.

Dean lay the rosary over the box of rock salt and started to read out the Latin from Dad's journal. " _Exorcizo te, creatura aquæ, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis..._ "

"There's no need for you to perform the ritual this time," Castiel interrupted.

Stumbling over the next few words, Dean finally stopped. "What?"

"I could." Castiel nodded towards the water. A wind gusted across the porch, sending water drops flying. Then formed dark spots on the dusty wood.

Dean glanced at Sam, but Sam only gave him a helpless look in return, as if he thought they had nothing to lose but he had no clue; it was completely up to Dean.

"Where do you think the power comes from that purifies the water, Dean?" Castiel moved closer and Dean felt an itch between his shoulder blades.

"I know what I believe in, and it's got nothing to do with God." Dean's fingers tightened around the pages of the old journal, into places that already bore the dents of his and Sam's and Dad's fingers. "It works because it just works. It's a hunter thing."

"That's faith," said Castiel, a very small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"No. I've seen it work with my own eyes. Because every hunter we've ever known can do it and I've got evidence it works. Not just priests, hunters. So it's not God, it's..." Dean lost the train of his thought, and Castiel's stare was making him feel weirdly self-conscious. "I don't know how you can keep believing in your God after everything, anyway," Dean said. "You've never even seen his face."

For a moment Castiel's expression changed to something that looked like hurt.

Maybe he shouldn't have taken that particular shot.

But then Castiel, who was standing very close to Dean now, put his hands against his own chest. "Yet I exist," he said, infuriatingly self-assured. "I can do the things I do."

"Um..." Sam cleared his throat. "Could we get back to the making holy water thing?"

Dean became aware of the sound of the water going into the tub and that he was still gripping the journal and the rosary.

He stepped away from Castiel, to the other side of the galvanized metal tub. There really wasn't time to debate theology with an annoying angel; they had work to do.

"You haven't given an answer to my offer. Would you like me to purify the water? I only want to help," he added, when Dean didn't answer right away.

"I know you do, Cas." Dean almost said yes. He was on the edge of it, and it wasn't Castiel himself he doubted, Dean realized; but he was sure of what he was sure of. If not Sam or Bobby, Dean had to do this himself. "Not this time." He lifted the rosary, and the Latin rolled from his tongue, familiar, feeling right. " _Exorcizo te, creatura aquæ, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis..._ "

* * *

The bar was empty, chairs and tables lined up, the only illumination from the glow of string lights along the ceiling beams. The air held traces of the thick scents of beer and buffalo wings.

Dean recognized the dive only in that it looked like dozens of places where he'd burned through booze and hustles, sweet-talking pretty girls who smelled a world better than graveyard dirt.

He stood by himself near the pool table, his breaths the only sound. He could almost hear his own heart beating, the silence of the place feeling more like a library than a bar.

Then Castiel was facing him a few feet away, in the clothes he'd been wearing when Dean had last seen him, minus the coat. He took a step towards Dean, his expression a mix of doubt and hope and guilt.

"I'm not sure I should," he said. "If you--" He sounded unusually uncertain, like he was _afraid_ of how Dean would respond this time. Maybe it was because of the holy water thing.

But they were about to leave the protection of the wards, and things were out of his control, everything that mattered always on the edge of slipping away, no matter how hard he fought. Just once, he wanted this, to give in, to go off the cliff.

In two strides, Dean crossed to Castiel, his mouth covering his, drowning whatever Castiel had been about to say.

Castiel kissed him back hard, matching Dean's movements. As Dean tugged him closer, one hand on Castiel's lower back, their tongues sliding together, Castiel let out a soft grunt. Feeling a little dizzy, even drunk, and growing hard, Dean tangled his fingers into Castiel's hair.

This didn't feel like falling off a cliff. This was sureness, despite the dizziness. Dean suddenly felt his body fit with Castiel's as if they'd always done this, the heat that uncoiled through him both astonishing and familiar.

Castiel pushed him, and Dean moved back until the edge of the pool table hit against his thighs as they kept on kissing and oh, _fuck_ , whatever it was Castiel was doing with his tongue felt good. He had no idea where Castiel could've learned to do that and right then he didn't care. He slid his palms up under Castiel's shirt, against bare skin, feeling the knobs of Castiel's backbone, the muscles moving under his touch. Dean traced his hands down again over Castiel's body to find his slim hips, then down further. When Dean cupped him through his slacks, Castiel whimpered and Dean about lost it right there.

"Oh, God," Dean muttered.

"No," Castiel said, kissing along the line of Dean's jaw. "Not exactly."

"You have to always be so friggin' literal?"

Dean reached down to unbutton and unzip his jeans, then did the same to Castiel's pants. He thrust against him until both of them were breathing ragged. Castiel's eyes shut as Dean reached down and closed his fingers around him, stroking and pulling until Castiel moaned, fingers tightening around Dean's shoulder. His lips and tongue found their way into the hollows of Dean's throat, skin hot against Dean's.

Shuddering and arching his neck, Castiel came, and when he was done, he looked at Dean, his expression happily tapped out but surprised and a little reproachful, as if he thought Dean should've maybe given him more warning about that or something.

Dean guided Castiel's hands down to where he wanted them. After a few moments, Castiel's fingers moved with more purpose, no longer needing Dean's guidance, and his lips curved in an almost-smile, as if the bastard knew exactly what he could do to Dean, how the heat flared through Dean at his touch.

Dean's fingers gripped tight around Castiel's waist as he came, the phrase _oh, God_ ripping from his throat again, only this time Castiel didn't bother correcting him.

* * *

Dean woke with bright early morning sun falling across his bed. He let the warmth soak into him, intensified through the glass of the window, turning the dream over in his head. He tried not to want to remember it as much as he did.

He stayed, warm and quiet and almost dozing, for a minute, two minutes, then kicked off the sheets and hurried to pull on his jeans, the background hum of urgency, fear, and the need to hunt pulling at him.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Dean said, when Castiel put his hand on the Impala's back door handle. In jeans and a t-shirt again, he almost looked like a hunter.

"I'm going with you."

"What about the archangels?"

"That's why I'm going with you."

Bobby went over to Dean. "Try not to get yourselves killed. Again."

He reached out and grabbed Dean into a hug so strong it pushed the breath out of him. Dean hugged him back, inhaling the familiar scents of old paper and coffee and grease, wondering what they'd do without Bobby.

"Ya idjit," Bobby muttered, letting go. He turned to Sam, who looked hesitant. "You're both idjits." He pulled Sam into a hug and Sam grabbed on back, long arms holding Bobby tightly.

Then Bobby sniffed hard and walked back towards the porch. As he passed Castiel he stopped and looked at the angel for a long moment while Castiel stared steadily back. Bobby gave him a quick, tight nod; and Castiel inclined his head, shoulders bowing a fraction, in a way that looked like respect.

* * *

They tracked the demons north, but the problem was there was a lot of activity, and so they wound up going after anything that crossed their path. Mostly it was smaller groups of demons, two or three at once. Easy pickings, for an angel who could smite with his bare hands and for two hunters armed with flasks of holy water (and two more gallons of it in the trunk) and the Rituale Romanum.

Well, easy as could be expected, given the circumstances. The first day, four hosts were alive after the exorcisms; three were already dead. The magic knife was in a box in the trunk, buried under two layers of other weapons; neither Sam nor Dean mentioned it.

At the end of the first day, Dean began to think it was too easy. It was midnight before they finally stopped at a motel, and Dean didn't feel as tapped out as he should've. This was the teaser, something to lead them. To what, he had no idea.

The three of them crashed in the same room, stuffy and faded with stained, worn green carpeting and framed prints of birds all over the walls.

Sam didn't bother changing his clothes. He put down the salt lines, then kicked off his shoes and flopped onto his stomach on his bed.

Castiel drew signs in chalk on the door, then in each of the four corners of the small room.

When that was done, he put down the chalk and lay down on the floor.

As Sam turned out the light and wriggled his way under the covers, Dean sat on the other bed in the darkness, the one nearest the door, looking at Castiel's back as he lay curled on his side on the green carpet between Dean's bed and the door. Earlier Dean had said they should rent a cot from the motel, but Castiel had waved the suggestion off, and Dean had refrained from commenting that Jimmy might not like sleeping on the floor.

"Uh, you want a pillow or a blanket or something?"

"Nope," said Castiel.

Without bothering with the covers, Dean lay back and closed his eyes. "Freak," he muttered.

* * *

It was a whisper in Dean's mind as he slept. He could barely catch hold of the words -- they were an insistent pressure in his consciousness, intruding, even if it felt as if the words weren't addressed directly to him. Dean struggled to duck his mind away from the touch while the whisperer's voice grew louder, mockery in the tone.

Like a punch to his stomach, he felt a jolt of terror and knew it wasn't his. The feel of it was Sam's.

Then another voice that Dean thought he recognized drowned out the whisperer with a sharp command. There was a flare of white light, whether in his head or from outside of him, Dean couldn't tell, and Sam's shout woke Dean.

Scrambling to his feet, Dean didn't bother reaching for a weapon or flask of holy water--it was instinct driving him as he reached out and grabbed his brother.

Sam fought him, yelling, and Dean tightened his grip, noticing Sam's shirt was damp with sweat.

"Easy, Sam, it's me, take it easy--" Dean saw Castiel walking towards them with two fingers raised, aimed at Sam's forehead. "Don't you dare," Dean snapped.

Castiel stopped and lowered his hand.

"Sam, hey, Sam!" Dean wondered if he'd have to punch him but then Sam's eyes focused. He took a deep, shaking breath.

"Dean?" Sam put his palms against Dean's chest.

"Yeah, last I checked. What's going on with you?"

Letting go of Dean, Sam sank down until he sat on the floor with his back against the side of the bed. He drew his legs up, rested his forehead on his knees. "Hell is right."

"What? Sam, talk to me." Dean felt his own jolt of terror now, wondering what he'd do if Sam shut him out and claimed it was nothing.

"Lucifer," said Sam. He raised his head, his mouth twisted in a bitter, resigned half-smile. "The motherfucker was in my head again, only this was more intense than the other times."

"How?" Dean turned to Castiel, who sat down on the end of the bed.

"The sigils aren't enough here. Your friend's home feels permanent to him. It's his. This place, while it does not move, is transitory to those who take shelter here. For the sigils to be at their full power, the place must belong to and feel like home to someone and this is home to none."

"You could've said something before we went to sleep, for crying out loud."

"I couldn't know for sure. I thought I could keep him out."

Sam's breathing slowed. "You did," he said. "Or at least, you sent him away, didn't you? In my head?"

Castiel nodded.

 _Crap._ Dean's brain hurt. He gave Sam an annoyed, questioning look.

"Okay," Sam said, "Lucifer was talking to me. Telling me I had to come to him. I almost...almost wanted to." He gripped Dean's arms. "But I told him no, and that's when he told me that if I let him in, he'd spare Dean. And then he _showed_ me..." Sam swallowed. "He had Dean right in front of me and then, it was like, like when Lilith's hounds--"

"I'm here." Dean gripped Sam's lower arms, linking them together. "It didn't happen."

"It's not going to happen," Castiel said.

* * *

Three days of hunting demons, nights spent in cheap motel rooms with Castiel's wards drawn on the doors and in the corners, and the initial rush of being out on the hunt again, of doing something, finally rolled into a bone-deep exhaustion.

Dean lay on his side facing Sam's bed, watching Sam sleep. Each night, he would drift off for a few hours at a time, woke always with his heart racing to find the motel room still and dark except for the colors from a neon sign or street lamps. Each time, he'd turn the other way to see Castiel sitting in a chair up against the door. A few times, Castiel's head was slumped, eyes closed, chest rising and falling steadily as if he'd at last given in to the wants of the human body he wore.

Knowing he was there made it easier to drift off, even though Dean fought against it. It was his job to watch over Sam, not Castiel's.

But Dean felt the helplessness of that since he couldn't defend Sam from a threat that had no physical form in its attacks.

But Sam slept uninterrupted, and Dean always surrendered to sleep himself.

* * *

"He's growing louder," Sam told them.

Sitting next to Sam on the hood of the Impala, Dean lowered his cup of soda. The empty peacefulness of the road a few yards away suddenly appeared menacing.

Castiel nodded, standing off by himself under the trees. "I've been holding him off, day and night. We're closer to him, so he's stronger."

"Then we should go the other direction." Dean slid off the hood. "Go where he isn't."

"He'll follow," said Castiel.

"Let him."

The schooled silence from Sam, how he busied himself with sucking his soda through a straw, showed Dean he wasn't buying the cold, angry bravado in his voice. Castiel wasn't either, based on how his mouth opened a little as if he was considering a comment, the way his gaze flicked too sharply to Dean. But he stayed silent.

They let him wear that armor, but Dean had no illusions that he was actually hidden behind it.

* * *

The next morning as they were putting their duffel bags away in the trunk, Sam went still, then muttered a curse.

"What?" Dean said. "Sammy?"

"Wow, are we stupid." Sam put his palm to his forehead.

Castiel's eyebrows went up.

"Okay, sometimes--okay, a lot of the time--we're stupid," Dean said, slamming the trunk closed. "What specific stupidity are you talking about?"

Sam rapped his knuckles against the trunk lid. "The Impala."

Dean still felt blank, but Castiel's eyes widened with understanding.

"If the anti-angel wards worked at Bobby's because that's his home," Sam explained, "and didn't work quite as well in the motel rooms because they belong to no one, then if we ward the Impala, well." Sam flattened his palm against the car. "It's permanent for us, right? Even if it moves around?"

Yeah, so maybe sometimes they were kind of stupid.

They got out a sharpie marker, chalk, and paint. For the next hour, Castiel crawled all over inside the Impala, marking her in hidden places. Sam settled on the ground with his back against a tree trunk and closed his eyes, but Dean kept his eye on Castiel.

He had a habit of tucking his tongue up against the corner of his lip as he worked, and he fixed his whole being on the task, as if only something close to an earthquake would distract him fully. He painted the circles with quick movements, then moved to the next spot, his fingers careful as he pushed parts of the car's interior aside, getting into her cracks. Despite the care, Dean flinched when Castiel ripped up the carpeting in the back, then took a deep breath to keep himself from going over there or telling him to watch where he put his hands.

Castiel crawled out of the car. "It's done."

"So you can't go back into the car now," Sam said, sounding regretful. "You can't ride with us."

"No. I'll follow my own way," Castiel said.

Oh right, the flying thing. With the three of them living in such close quarters, Dean had almost forgotten. "What about the archangels?" Dean wasn't sure he liked this plan.

"They can't detect you while you're in the Impala."

"No, I mean what about you?"

"If they find me, I can draw them off, to let you do your work."

Dean definitely didn't like this. It was true, they'd been hunting for days outside the protective barrier of the wards, with only the thin protection of the markings on motel room walls at night, but this was different. The Impala was home, Castiel had just turned it into a certain safety zone, and he couldn't use it himself.

It seemed almost unfair.

* * *

Despite a quiet, insistent worry about Castiel that Dean tried hard to ignore, being in the Impala with just him and Sam again felt good, as if it was any normal time of hunting ( _normal_ being a relative term). Knowing the car was demon and angel-proofed, that was a bonus. Someday, they'd hunt without heaven and hell having slappy fights over their heads.

He had Sam, that was enough.

But when they found the nest of demons near the Wyoming border, there was a twist of relief in Dean's gut when the wind sent the dust and grit swirling and Castiel appeared, intact and himself.

* * *

They slept that night in the Impala, Sam stretched out in the back, Dean in the passenger seat with Castiel visible through the windshield, sitting on the hood with his knees drawn up and the spread of star-filled sky beyond him. He'd said he wouldn't stay long, that every minute he stayed, that ran the risk of drawing the angels too close to Sam and Dean.

He wasn't wearing the trenchcoat and suit now, trading them for another pair of borrowed jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt under a flannel shirt. The flannel shirt had been Castiel's idea; he said he thought Jimmy would prefer it if the night was cold.

After a few moments, Castiel stood up on the hood--damn him, he'd mark the paint job--and then vanished with a beat of wings.

* * *

The church looked like it had been abandoned for decades, leaning a little to the west, ready to be done with everything. At this distance, Dean couldn't make out the image the single, small stained glass window in the tower formed, but the glass looked dirty and faded. All around stretched a whole lot of wide open, green nothing beneath a cloudy sky, the wind gusting with a faint, high whistle.

Six people had vanished from the nearby town, and the tiny sheriff's department had found no trace of them. They seemed relieved to have agents Manzarek and Krieger step in.

"Maybe we should wait," Sam said, opening the gallon jug of holy water they'd made that morning.

He crouched and started to pour water into the four flasks and two small water bottles while Dean took a shotgun out of the trunk, hefted it, and then reached for a box of rock-salt rounds. Rock salt wouldn't stop a demon, but it would slow them down.

Dean turned to look out across the prairie, the light pale and thin. The wind made it so he'd never see or hear the warning before Castiel showed, but Dean still watched for the smaller stir of wind, caught himself listening for the quick beat of wings.

"We don't need him to do this," Dean said, opening the shotgun, sliding in the rounds, and snapping it closed. "Angel or no angel, we have to save those people. We don't need to win this one, Sam, or kill all the demons. This is just a grab-and-run, to get those people out of there."

"I wonder where he is." Sam finished topping off the flasks and twisted the caps back on. He got to his feet. "It's probably better to do this with him."

"He's got better things to do than perch on our shoulders," Dean said, more sharply and bitterly than he intended. He crouched and tucked two flasks into each pocket of his jacket, still holding the shotgun.

"Not really," a voice said behind him.

Dean startled and turned with his shotgun raised, a reflex. He lowered it immediately when he saw it was Castiel.

Right, no warning.

"Huh?" Dean said, not sure he'd understood what Castiel had said.

"Nothing." Castiel, wearing the jeans and t-shirt and flannel shirt, looked more rumpled than usual. Dean noticed that he had to catch his breath before he continued. "How many?"

"Six hostages, eight demons," said Sam, taking his shotgun from the trunk.

"Easy peasy," said Dean, wondering what had delayed Castiel.

As they walked towards the church, the wind tugged at the hem of Castiel's shirt, and Dean noticed scorch marks on the flannel.

* * *

They spread out, Sam sneaking in through a window at the north, Dean from the south, while Castiel walked right in through the front doors, banging them open with a wind and a crash, while the lights in the church flickered. An angel made an excellent distraction to give Dean and Sam a chance to reach the hostages. It was a good plan.

Several demons rushed at Castiel, but he raised his hand to each one's forehead and after the light flashed through their bodies, they slumped to the floor. The others stayed back, guarding the captives. Dean ducked into a row of pews and crawled until he was within reach of two of the hostages, a middle-aged woman in a flowery dress and a teenaged boy.

"Psst, hey," Dean whispered. They turned to him, eyes wide and startled. From their looks, they were probably family, they had the same eyes and chin. Dean went to work on the ropes that bound them. "We're getting you out of here. Don't move, don't do anything, until I give the signal to run."

He couldn't see where Sam was, couldn't see what Castiel was doing, but Dean shut it out and focused on undoing the knots. Sam wasn't a scared kid anymore; even without his wacky demon blood powers, he was more than a little frightening himself, had been for a while.

The woman in the floral print dress gave Dean a maternal, grateful look. Then she tilted her head, her teeth flashing in a too-broad smile. "My hero," she simpered.

In a numb moment, Dean's fingers stopped their work as the woman's eyes went black.

 _Shit_.

"Sam, the hostages are demons!" Dean yelled. He fumbled a flask of holy water out of his pocket, unscrewed the cap, flung it in the woman's face as he started to crawl backwards out of the pew.

The demon shrieked, smoke rising from her skin, while Dean realized he'd screwed up in losing track of the kid, who lunged at Dean from above, knife gleaming.

Dean jerked backwards. The movement didn't prevent the blade from cutting him, but it did keep it from hitting anything vital. Dean hissed in pain, flung holy water into the kid's face, and tumbled out of the pew, hardly feeling the blood wet and warm against his side. He heard Sam shout his name, and then Castiel.

When he straightened up and looked around, one hand pressing his jacket into the wound, the other gripping his shotgun, he found chaos. Castiel was surrounded by demons, taking out any he could get his hands on. Dean turned in a circle and found no one else in the church.

"Sam?" he shouted. "Sammy?"

Fuck. Fuck, no. Dean ran down the aisle, into the choir. He felt vertigo, and let go of the wound to grip onto the metal railing, his hand slippery with blood. This could not be happening, this straight up could _not_ be happening.

He saw a demon kick Castiel in the stomach. Castiel stumbled, then punched the demon hard enough to send him falling into the pews. He put his hand to the forehead of the next demon that attacked. There was a flash of white-yellow light that lit up the demon's skin, and the human host slumped.

Before Dean could move again, Castiel was next to him, grabbing Dean's arm.

"We have to go."

"Sam." Dean lunged towards the door to the right of the sanctuary. That was one route of many they could have taken.

He felt himself jerked backwards, caught in an iron grip.

"You godamned son of a bitch," Dean yelled. He struggled, his vision starting to cloud at the edges. His side felt wet.

"Dean, I'm sorry. They kept me from getting to Sam, they surrounded me. It happened very quickly."

"What happened quickly?" He saw Castiel raise his hand towards Dean's forehead, index and middle finger together. " _No_ ," Dean said, while the few demons who remained on their feet ran down the center aisle towards them.

Castiels arms were around him as Dean's legs gave way. "We have to wait for back up," Castiel said.

"Back up? Who the fuck is going to back us up?"

Dean tried to struggle to his feet and break free, but Castiel's fingers touched his forehead.

As he passed out, Dean heard Castiel saying, _we'll save Sam, I promise, I promise_ , and then the sound of many wings.

* * *

When Dean woke, the first thing he saw was Anna sitting at his feet. He was stretched out on one of the front pews, leaning against something warm. His head and shoulders were up against Castiel, and Castiel had one arm curled across Dean's chest.

The memory of what had happened flooded back. He tried to sit up. "Sam."

"Easy," Anna said, and put her hand on Dean's leg, keeping him in place.

Castiel pulled his arm away. "You're injured."

Dean looked down, remembering, and saw the bit of white bandage peeking out from under his shirt. His jacket was balled up next to Anna, stained with blood. "How long have I been out?"

"About half an hour," said Castiel, helping Dean sit up. His grip was careful and light, like he was afraid Dean might break.

"You mind-whammied me." Dean wrenched his shoulder out of Castiel's grasp.

"It was necessary."

"Screw you," said Dean, a hurt in some part of him he couldn't even name. _I don't trust you...you shouldn't._

But he'd wanted to.

A silence fell over the three of them, while the wound in Dean's side twinged.

"Need water," Dean said finally.

Anna rummaged in the jacket and pulled out a flask. "It's holy water, is that okay?" She held it out to him.

"Water's water," said Dean. It's not as if he'd never drunk holy water before. The water made him feel stronger, and with that, the need to be on his feet and doing something. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands a moment. The whole thing felt unreal. This couldn't be happening, not again, Sam could not be gone, not after everything they'd been through. "We need a new plan," he said, raising his head, staring up at the outline on the wall above the sanctuary where a statue of Christ must have hung once.

"We have one," Anna said, her voice steady with a relentless note of decisiveness.

Dean turned to Castiel. "What happened? How the hell did they get Sam?"

"I saw a group of them surround him. We both called to you--neither of us realized you'd been injured. He fought bravely, and drove some of them off with holy water. But several grabbed him from behind, while one of them put a cloth over Sam's nose and mouth."

"Fuckers." Dean's stomach felt icy. Getting to his feet, he reached across Anna for his jacket. "So if you have a plan, what is it?"

"Just a few more minutes." Anna said.

"That bastard has Sam."

Her voice grew sharp. "We have time." Then she reached out and squeezed Dean's hand, her grasp dry and strong. "We have time," she added softly. "Lucifer will need to do a ritual first, to remove the tattoo that protects Sam from possession, and in a moment we should know where he is." Letting go of Dean's hand, she twined her fingers together in her lap and bit her lip. "We hope we're enough."

Dean shrugged into his jacket, disregarding the large bloodstain on the side. "We who?"

"Other angels who don't agree with Zachariah. Who want to stop this war."

"They intervened with the archangels for me today, so I could go to you and Sam," Castiel said. "That's why I was delayed, the archangels caught up to me, but Anna and the others held them off." He fixed Anna with a long, steady gaze, and Anna stared back, the corners of her mouth turned down with uncertainty.

Dean's head was starting to hurt, in addition to the throb from the knife wound. Sam was the angels-apparently-knew-where, having the-literal-devil-knows-what being done to him, and Dean was starting to feel like he needed a flow chart to keep track of the forces of heaven and hell.

"This angelic family reunion is very touching," Dean said, picking up his shotgun. He strode away from them into the aisle. "But if your others don't show up soon I'm going to look for Sam without your help."

For a moment Anna's fingers curled tight around the edge of the pew. Then she got to her feet and went to Dean. "That would be incredibly stupid," she said.

"Watch me not care," said Dean.

He was almost at the church doors when he felt a stir of wind and heard wing beats. Suddenly there were three figures blocking his path, a woman in her forties with chin-length blonde hair who looked like she was a CEO when she wasn't being an angel meatsuit, a slender, small, dark-skinned woman with black hair pulled back into a ponytail, college-age, and a guy with broad shoulders whose vessel was probably a gym teacher.

"Dean, this is Xaphan, Sofiel, and Liwet," said Anna, her voice clear and strong behind him. "Did you find him?"

Xaphan, Dean assumed, the blonde woman, nodded. "He's in a church fifty miles from here."

"Another church." The dark-skinned girl sighed. "He would. Lucifer always enjoyed a dramatic touch."

"No, it's not only that. He needs to perform the ritual on holy ground." Castiel came to stand beside Dean. "Let's go get your brother."

"I'll need more holy water, in the car," Dean said.

He shoved past the angels and went outside. Castiel followed, his very own second shadow.

They reached the car, and Dean gave him an annoyed look.

Castiel made an impatient sound in his throat. "It's not safe for you unprotected."

"Yeah, well, you do know I managed for thirty years without you looking after me, right? Okay, I mean, except for the whole selling my soul and getting killed and going to hell thing but you..." Dean opened the Impala's trunk, not sure what his point was; it might be better if he shut his cake hole. He took out the jug of holy water and refilled the flasks. "You're not here to perch on my shoulder."

"No, I'm not." Castiel glanced down at the weapons in the trunk before his gaze slid up to Dean again. "But I don't mind doing it."

Tucking the flasks into his jacket, Dean blinked. It looked an awful lot like Castiel was _blushing_ , which was ludicrous and not even possible; worse, Dean felt his own face starting to flush.

He slammed the trunk shut, then put the shotgun in his duffel bag. "Take me to Sam," he said.

Castiel touched his shoulder. The world spun, turning into a blur. A sensation like the drop of an elevator only more intense--a freefall amusement park ride--lurched in his stomach. A moment later Dean was in a field of tall dry grass next to the skeletal frame of a barn ruin, with a different church rising in the distance, larger than the other one. Bile rose in his throat, from the crazy angel ride, from his injury, from fear about what was happening to Sam. Dean swallowed; no way he would toss his cookies in front of Castiel.

The grasses shivered, rustling, before Anna and the other three angels appeared.

"We'll each approach from different directions," Anna said, with the voice of a leader. This was not the same Anna that Dean had first met, the human girl who didn't know she was an angel. This was Castiel's former CO. The strength of will that Dean had always seen in her, even when she'd thought she'd been just a human girl, even when she'd been frightened or uncertain, now seemed magnified. "Xaphan and Sofiel, wait for my signal before going in, Liwet, to the rafters at the west. Castiel, take Dean to the rafters at the east. You two attack first, the moment you think it's right."

Castiel touched his shoulder. After another stomach-plunging moment, he felt Castiel push his hands against a wood beam, felt something firm under his boots. His duffel bag was still over his shoulder, weight of the gun reassuring.

"Shit," Dean whispered. They were perched on a rafter beneath the church's roof, the floor about hundred miles below. The knife wound flared with pain as dizziness swept over him. Dean shut his eyes, leaning his forehead against the wood.

"Dean?" Castiel's hand was against his back.

"Don't...like...heights," Dean grated. He took two deep breaths. _Sam._ He opened his eyes, his vision clearing, and took an assessment of the situation below.

Six demons at the main doors, four along on each side wall, six more in front of the choir.

There was a guy in the sanctuary, bending over Sam, who was tied on his back to the altar. Dean's fingernails dug into the wooden beam.

"Not long now, Sammy," the man said, trailing his finger over Sam's cheek.

Sam jerked his head away and the man laughed, leaning down so his mouth hovered near Sam's ear, almost brushing his skin.

He straightened up and Dean got a better look at him. Average height, light muscular build, bright white teeth that showed when he smiled above a pointed chin. His eyes were some pale color--from here Dean couldn't see if they were yellow or red or gold or whatthefuckever.

He looked ordinary, wearing dark blue slacks, matching sports-coat, white shirt open at the collar, no tie. "You might as well stop that," the man said as Sam tugged and strained against the ropes. He rested his palms against the marble on either side of Sam's shoulders. "This is meant to be. You and I." His hand slid down over Sam's chest, over his hip, and lingered, while Sam stilled his struggling, looking up into Lucifer's face. Dean gripped the wooden beam so tightly his fingers hurt. "What Azazel formed you into, for _me_. Besides, remember what I told you about Dean?"

"You godamned fucking son of a bitch." Sam pulled at the ropes again, his whole body straining upwards.

The guy in the suit sighed, pushed himself up and away from Sam. He rubbed his hand over his face. "So stubborn. Both of you. All this power for the taking--it'd be a shame to waste it. Instead I'm stuck in this--" he pulled impatiently at the sports coat--"weak vessel, instead of being where I'm supposed to be, inside you."

On a table stood a bronze bowl, dark red markings traced on the wood around it--blood, Dean figured. If it was Sam's, he was going to rip Lucifer's spleen out through his nose, human host or no human host. Next to the bowl was a knife. From here, he couldn't see any sign of injury on Sam.

Lucifer bent over Sam again and tugged down the collar of his shirt to reveal the tattoo. He brushed his hand over it. "First things first, we'll get this out of our way."

Dean looked at Castiel, putting a plea into it. Castiel gripped Dean's shoulder.

A second later they were in the choir. Lucifer and his demons startled, Lucifer letting go of Sam's shirt. Dean already had a flask out, and flung the water at the nearest demons, who shrieked, eyes black and skin smoking. Lucifer threw up his arm.

Behind them in the pews, Dean heard Anna shouting out an order, heard more demons screaming.

Castiel put his hand to the forehead of each demon as they rushed forward, taking them out. Dean dropped the duffel bag and flung the holy water at Lucifer again, scattering water drops on the expensive-looking his suit. Nothing happened.

"Dean," Sam breathed, tugging at the ropes.

Now Dean saw the blood staining the sleeve of Sam's shirt, up near his shoulder, and the thin, red cut going down his upper arm. Dean's vision went cloudy, something hot behind his eyes. He got out the shotgun and raised it to his shoulder.

"Oh, Dean," Lucifer said, lips curving in an indulgent smile. "Have you forgotten what I am?"

His eyes were a normal, washed out gray-blue.

Lucifer lifted his hand, and Dean felt a force as powerful as a semi slam into him. He heard Sam shout his name right before he struck the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. The shotgun fell to the floor, his fingers gone weak.

Keeping his hand up, Lucifer walked towards Dean, who was pinned in place with his feet dangling off the floor. Dean gasped, a pressure against his chest.

"In case you forgot my offer, Sam," Lucifer said over his shoulder, but he kept his gaze on Dean, mouth curved in smirk of delight, even hunger. "Here's a refresher on how it works. You agree to fulfill your destiny as my vessel, and I won't pull your brother's entrails out and eat them."

Lucifer's wrist twitched; Dean felt his knife wound reopen, a sharp pain cutting into him. Dean bit his tongue to keep from screaming--no way the bastard would get the satisfaction. He heard Sam cursing, yelling, and then pleading, as the pain intensified and Dean's vision started to go dark at the edges.

The natural light in the church flickered, and through his confusion, Dean felt all the hairs on his arms go up.

"Lucifer." That was all the warning Castiel gave before he leapt, the shadow of his wings flaring over his head. A low, wordless shout of rage broke from him as he struck Lucifer, who crashed against the sanctuary wall next to the statue of Christ.

Lucifer fell to the floor, spat, then pushed himself to his feet, no blood on him. He brushed off the sleeves of the sports coat. "Hello, little brother." The shadow of his wings appeared along with a clap of thunder.

Angels were always so friggin' dramatic. Dean tried to break away from the wall, but couldn't. The pain in his side was less, though, and the pressure in his chest had eased. He heard the sounds of the battle continue down in pews, heard the demons scream, but couldn't turn his head to see what was happening. He could barely see Sam past Lucifer and Castiel.

A bright wide smile breaking across his face like he lived for this shit, Lucifer pounced on Castiel, grabbed his shoulders and tried to fling him sideways, but Castiel's fingers closed around Lucifer's wrists. They struggled, wings arching above them. The span of Lucifer's was wider, their height greater, than Castiel's.

"Aw, defending your human plaything?" Lucifer smirked. "It's really sweet, how you're willing to debase yourself for him. Not so pure of mind anymore, are you, kiddo?"

Lucifer wrenched free and stepped back, then kicked Castiel in the stomach, sending him into the choir, the wood of the pews cracking beneath the force of his body as it landed. Castiel was on his feet in a moment, a trickle of blood down the side of his face. Dean strained to pull himself from the wall, but felt the pressure holding him in place.

"Cas, Cas, Cas." Lucifer ticked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and sighed. "You never were much of a fighter."

"The name," Castiel said, and before Dean could figure out what he'd done, Lucifer had smashed against the sanctuary wall hard enough to break through the plaster this time, "is _Castiel_."

Castiel lifted his hand towards Dean, and Dean felt the pressure release him. He slumped to the floor, then scrambled over to Sam.

Crawling from the rubble, covered in dust and streaks of blood, Lucifer's pale eyes darkened with fury. "You chose the wrong side."

Dean's fingers shook as he worked the ropes, saying soothing things to Sam like _it's okay, take it easy, we're getting out of here_ even though Sam did most of the work of wriggling himself free, and Dean felt the increased wetness of blood at his side. Sam was up on his feet, his arm going around Dean, supporting him.

Lucifer had somehow gotten Castiel shoved up against the wall, the shadow of their wings mingled and splayed against the white plaster, his hands around Castiel's throat. "Should I kill you?" He drawled. "Or send you back to heaven to face judgment?"

Holding onto Sam, Dean hesitated. He spotted the shotgun, wondered if it would do anything against Lucifer. The memory of Castiel walking without a flinch through repeated blasts of rock salt flashed through his mind.

Then Anna appeared, looking small in relation to the shadow of her wings. She pulled Lucifer off Castiel and sent him staggering back.

Recovering, Lucifer walked towards Anna as she stared him down. "Look at you, all graced up and self-righteous." He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood, then licked his lips. "You're not so different than me."

"Go," Anna said over her shoulder to Dean, her voice tight and commanding.

Then she and Castiel lunged at Lucifer together.

Dean grabbed his brother, and they ran.

* * *

Sam hot-wired a Ford truck from a nearby farm, because no way was anyone going to take them as hitch-hikers, both of them blood-stained, Sam looking lean, desperate, and dangerous as Clint Eastwood. At times they could pass for harmless, for normal, even for the authorities, but not today, and Dean thought how looking like outlaws was more normal for them than anything else. It felt more normal, too--when he was in a suit and dark coat, trying to pretend he was Fox Mulder, Dean felt self-conscious, worried he might flub his lines.

He shut his eyes on the drive back to the Impala, leaning against the door as Sam flirted with the speed limit, not going past it because the last thing they wanted was a cop pulling them over, asking questions.

"Dean?" Sam asked softly.

"Yeah, I'm good," Dean said, without opening his eyes.

At the Impala, the old church rising in the distance, Sam did skilled work stitching him up. Whoever had put the bandage on him did a decent job, but hadn't done stitches. He wondered if it had been Anna or Castiel. Most likely Anna; she'd been human for a long time. Castiel probably couldn't find his way around removing a splinter; every time he got injured he did his magical healing whammy on his borrowed body. He didn't know the first thing about human pain.

Dean thought of Castiel's face with the blood trickling down one side.

"How strong do you think Lucifer is?" Dean asked, motioning for Sam to move closer so he could check his cut. He pushed up Sam's sleeve. The cut didn't look deep.

After pouring water over his fingers to wash away the blood, Sam let Dean tend to the cut on his arm. Sam hissed as the antiseptic hit the wound, then said, "Strong in what sense?"

"I mean, there's five angels against one, assuming Anna's Scooby Gang finished pretty quickly with the minions." Dean taped a bandage over Sam's cut.

"I don't know." Sam started to put the scraps of bandages, the scissors, the spool of thread, away in the first aid kit. "They can't kill him because if they do, we all die and earth becomes a paradise. Anna and Castiel don't want that." Sam paused. "Lucifer's pretty strong. The strongest, the most beautiful, the favorite. They called him the star of the morning." Sam's voice sounded odd. Then he twitched his shoulders, his mouth drawing down like he'd tasted something bitter.

The sun cast the long shadow of the church's tower across the prairie. "Let's get out of here," Dean said.

* * *

The moment they drove through the gate at Bobby's, Dean thought he'd feel a weight lifted, but instead it was like going back into prison.

Bobby didn't comment much when they told him what had happened. "Just glad you boys are back here safe," he said.

It wasn't prison, Dean thought, it was safety--but it wasn't a solution. Hiding couldn't be forever, not with demons out there still turning the midwest into their own blood-soaked playground, not with the need to stop Lucifer from stealing from Sam whatever it was that made Sam himself.

He and Sam did research with Bobby, they cleaned the weapons, they talked about what to do next, but they couldn't seem to agree on a strategy. There was no word from Castiel or Anna; there couldn't be, with the wards, but even the network of hunters that checked in with Bobby hadn't seen any angels that gave a rat's ass about collateral damage.

Lucifer was the strongest, Sam had said.

Every time the wind stirred up the dirt or gusted into the house through an open window, Dean looked up.

He never saw what he expected (hoped) to see.

* * *

Three days slid by. Dean's side didn't ache so much and the wound was healing fine.

On the third night, Dean walked out among the old cars. They were like boulders made of colorful metal, forming a landscape as much as any desert or forest Dean had ever been to.

He wondered how long he'd have to shout this time before there'd be an answer.

Dean knew there couldn't be one.

* * *

"Here." Dean put a bowl of water and a smaller bowl of salt down on the kitchen table in front of Sam, right on the notebook where he was writing.

"What's this?" Pulling his notebook out of harm's way, Sam looked up at Dean.

Dean got the journal and rosary from where he'd put them on the counter, and held them out to Sam. When Sam wouldn't take them, he put them on the table next to the bowls. "Do it."

"Dean..." Sam's fidgeted with the metal spiral on his notebook. "I told you. I can't."

"Do it anyway." Dean pulled another chair over, close to Sam, and sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"But that won't work. You heard what Castiel said about belief."

"And I don't believe that you really don't believe." Dean tapped the cover of the journal. "We spent most of our lives knowing this shit works. You're going to stop now because you've got a little shot of something extra in your blood? It's not all you are." When Sam didn't answer, the room falling into a thick silence, panic nudged at Dean. For a while it had seemed like the harder he grabbed on, the more Sam slipped away but he had to try. He had to. "You believe in me, right? You trust me?"

"Yes." Sam's arm rested on the table alongside the journal.

"Then do it because I'm asking you to."

Sam opened the journal and picked up the rosary.

When the ritual was done, Dean poured the holy water into his flask and put it into the inside breast pocket of his leather jacket, sure that it would work when the time came.

Another day slid by them.

* * *

In his dreams, Dean saw Castiel with the blood trickling down the side of his face, saw him touching the painted marks on a boulder, saw him arch his neck, his fingers on Dean's chest.

Castiel and Dean stood on the roof of the Impala facing each other, the chill of a desert night against Dean's skin and the sky full of stars.

"You're not actually here, right?" Dean asked. "I mean, it's not actually you, doing your dreamwalking thing in my brain?"

"Nope," Castiel said, a paint can and a brush suddenly appearing in his hands. He wore a t-shirt and jeans, and his boots looked exactly like Dean's. "The wards keep me out."

Dean stepped forward, took Castiel's chin in his hand and kissed him. Castiel's tongue tangled with Dean's as Castiel pulled him in closer.

The can dropped, spreading paint over the car roof, and it was a dream so who cared about the Impala's paint job but Dean thought he might not care anyway, this once. Castiel's hand moved up under Dean's t-shirt along the curve of his back, his breath warm against Dean's face.

Looking down, Dean saw the white paint spill against the black in a thin curved line with smaller offshoots. It looked like a thorn branch.

They stopped kissing, and Castiel's frightened gaze met Dean's as the line of white curled up over Castiel's boots, then around his calves. Dean grabbed Castiel's wrists and pulled, trying to free him, but Castiel slipped out of his grasp, their skin gone slippery with paint.

* * *

Dean woke in his sleeping bag on the floor next to the couch, where Sam was stretched out on his back. Since they'd been back, more often than not they crashed for the night in the library among the books. They both said it was because the research kept them up late, so they might as well sleep right there anyway; but they both knew the real reason why.

The room was full of soft darkness. His pulse trip-hammering in his chest, Dean held up his hands, staring at them by the light of the moon, but there was no white paint smeared on them.

He got up and tugged Sam's blanket more securely over him, then went to Bobby's desk. He switched on the lamp and opened a book. Dean stared at the image on the page, and let a burn of fear and fury wash over him before he took a deep breath and settled down to read.

* * *

One afternoon the dogs started barking and a rental car appeared, sending up a trail of dust behind it as it jounced towards the house.

Sam took his laptop off his knees, closed the lid, and put it down on the table on the porch, while Dean was already down the steps into the yard.

"It's not him," Dean said, his voice calm, which was funny because his heart was going way too fast and his head felt kind of detached from his body. "It's not Castiel. It's Jimmy."

He could tell, even this far away, and through the tint of the windshield. Dean knew it even before the logic part of his brain kicked in with the fact that Castiel couldn't enter unless he was unconscious because of the wards, and wouldn't be driving a car if he could. He knew from the line of Jimmy's shoulders, the way his head and arms moved. It wasn't Castiel. Which meant Castiel was probably injured.

The car stopped and Jimmy got out, looking road-worn and exhausted. Dean's throat closed over. He heard the door open behind him and knew Bobby had joined them. When Dean glanced behind him Bobby was on the porch behind Sam, holding a shotgun down at his side.

"Castiel." Dean walked up to meet Jimmy. "Tell me, what's going on? Was it archangels? Is he unconscious?"

"He's not with me," Jimmy said.

Dean felt a blank sense of shock. "Then where the hell is he?"

"A few hours from here." Jimmy rubbed his hand over his mouth.

"Is he all right?" Dean thought he might start throwing punches if Jimmy didn't start talking, right now.

"Sort of? Yes? I mean, no. I have no idea."

"Take a deep breath, son," said Bobby. "And try to make sense."

"He's himself," Jimmy said with a weird note in his voice, almost like something was really funny but he didn't think it was right to laugh and he actually found the situation more uncomfortable than funny.

"What does that mean?" Dean restrained himself from shaking Jimmy until his teeth rattled.

"He's...just, you need to go to him. I think he needs help. I'll take you there. Now."

* * *

About an hour out in the Impala, Jimmy leaned forward from his spot in the back seat. "You should know something."

"There's a lot we should know, but you aren't explaining." Dean let out a breath and relaxed his fingers around the steering wheel.

"That's because I can't explain it." Jimmy leaned his elbows on the seat back.

"Try," said Sam, turning in his seat, insistent.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to see for yourself. But I should probably let you know ahead of time, he doesn't know I went to get you. He thinks I went to go buy food."

About two hours out from Bobby's, they had to stop for gas, the Impala's meter creeping too close to the _E_. Sam headed into the tiny grocery to restock their first-aid kit with painkillers, band-aids, needle, thread, and alcohol, while Jimmy wandered off to the men's room.

Stupid, Dean thought afterwards. That's what hiding for too long got you, it made you sloppy and careless. It was amazing Jimmy had made it to Bobby's alone in the first place.

Dean was just topping off the tank when he heard the thump from around the side of the cinderblock building, then Jimmy shouting for Sam and Dean. Yelling for Sam, Dean ran, without taking the time to stop and grab the shotgun from the trunk.

A brawny guy who looked like a trucker, eyes gone all black, grabbed Jimmy's wrist as Jimmy tried to take a swing at him. The other demon, using the meatsuit of a kid wearing a shirt with the gas station's logo on it, punched Jimmy in the stomach. Jimmy went to his knees and the trucker twisted his arm up behind his back.

The flask was already in Dean's hand, the cap off. Dean flung the water at the brawny guy, who let out a cry of rage, smoke rising from the skin of his face. He let go of Jimmy, who slumped, breaking his fall with his palms. Before the other demon, the kid, could even move, Dean pivoted and delivered a roundhouse kick that knocked him up against the dumpster, and then flung water on him.

When Sam appeared, stepping into view from the back of the gas station with a sawed-off shotgun raised to his shoulder, the demons vacated their hosts, dark smoke rising to the sky with low, hollow shrieks.

"Jesus," Jimmy muttered, as Sam lowered his shotgun and gripped Jimmy's arm, pulling him to his feet. " _Jesus._ "

"Not even close," said Dean.

Jimmy was breathing heavily, hands shaking, but he pushed his fingers through his hair, brushed the grit off his shirt, and then his breathing slowed.

He stared down at the two unconscious hosts. "I'm still getting used to the idea that demons and angels are real," Jimmy said, his voice steady.

Dean remembered how Jimmy had sounded, the last time he'd agreed to host Castiel-- _if he still needs me for now, then I can do this_ \--scared but calm, just like now.

"You okay?" Sam asked Jimmy, as Dean tucked the flask back into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

"Yeah. I mean, _okay_ isn't the word I'd use but whatever, close enough." Jimmy nodded. "We'd better get to Castiel."

* * *

The house was small, one-storey, tucked back into the trees off a side road. Jimmy said he was renting it by the week. Peeling paint covered the walls, the roof looked sound, and it felt exactly like the kind of places Dean had spent a lot of time staying at, the kind of place you'd rent by the week.

Dean and Sam and Jimmy stood next to the Impala, staring at the front door.

"I almost left him," Jimmy said. "After so long, I'm finally free of him. I need to find Amelia and Claire. But then I couldn't, I couldn't just leave him. He's put wards up, but he says this place isn't someone's home and they'll only do so much."

"Where's Anna?" Dean looked at the battered metal chairs at the end of the porch. They were a pale aqua color, or had been once before rain and years faded them.

"The other angels were here. I haven't seen them for two days. Anna said she'd try to watch over him, but that Lucifer was still out there, she had to go. She told me to stay in the house with Castiel, to be careful." Jimmy hugged his arms. "I don't remember much, and I think he shielded me from a lot of it somehow, but I could feel some things. I could feel enough." He looked at Dean. "After spending so long with him in my head, I guess I thought it might help him to see you."

It was like they were all waiting for something.

"So, he's not in his true angel form or anything like that, is he?" Dean folded his arms and took a step back until his legs were against the Impala's side. "My ears aren't going to bleed if I go in there?"

"No," Jimmy said. "It's nothing like that."

Finally, when neither Sam nor Jimmy moved, Dean walked forward and opened the door.

Off to the right was the kitchen, where Dean found Castiel sitting at a wooden table wearing Jimmy's meatsuit.

At the sound of Dean's footsteps on the wood floor, he looked up, and his head jerked when he saw Dean, like a startled bird of prey. His posture, the way his hands were folded on the table, his eyes, looked like Castiel.

Dean froze, then stepped outside to look at Jimmy again.

"Yeah, I know. Weird. It's like he's my brother or my twin or something." Jimmy shook his head. "Maybe that's why I couldn't just leave him. He's sort of...he's _me_ , only not."

A crease formed in Sam's forehead as he tried to figure out what the heck was going on, and then he moved forward himself to look inside, going up the porch steps and into the house, his shoulder brushing Dean's as he moved past.

"Oh." Sam stood still.

"Hi, Sam," said Castiel.

"Oh. Hi. Huh." Sam looked at Dean, mouth open a little, then walked back outside to stand with Jimmy.

Dean just stood on the porch, fingers gripping the edge of the screen door, feeling surreal, and then Sam made a little shooing motion at him. Mouth dry, Dean went inside.

The light inside was dim, shades dawn against the sun, and it was cooler than outside. Dean closed the door behind him and leaned against it. He couldn't seem to move any farther, not yet.

He stared at the man sitting at the kitchen table.

Castiel was looking at Dean in a way that pulled him inside-out, a mix of so much gladness and want and hopelessness and misery that it took all Dean had not to open the door and flee.

"What happened to you?" Dean said bluntly.

He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Castiel wince, shoulders hunching a fraction.

"I asked Anna for help. She called in a few favors."

His hands now rested with palms flat against the table. Castiel wore a plain white t-shirt so fresh out of the package it still had creases, jeans, and no socks. His hair was messy, sticking up in tufts.

Dean swallowed a few times, his mouth gone dry, then moved away from the door. He pulled out the chair opposite Castiel's and sat. It was then Dean noted the sigils painted on the walls.

"Anna?"

"She said--" something caught in Castiel's voice. "She said she forgave me. So I asked her. For this." Castiel moved his hands, touching his chest.

Curling his fingers into fists on his thighs, Dean found he couldn't stop noticing tiny details--the hairs on Castiel's arms, the loose thread on the collar of his white shirt, the stubble on his jaw, the perpetual shadows under his eyes that now looked darker, the way his shoulders were tensed.

"It hurt," Castiel said in a whisper.

"Wait. Wait. Did you fall?"

"No," said Castiel. "But I'm alone inside this shell." He rested his hands on the table again. "I didn't think it would hurt this much. The soul of Jimmy Novak, it was like a cushion. I could feel, but it was muffled."

"Like shock absorbers," Dean said. "On a car, when you go over the bumps."

Castiel nodded. "You're here," he breathed, in a way that made Dean's chest hurt.

"Wow, observant, aren't you?" Dean said acidly, and then was sorry. "So what happened with Lucifer? Last time I saw you guys, you were all headed for a big smackdown."

"He was stronger, even against all of us. We weakened him, but had no other option but to retreat." Castiel's gaze fixed on Dean again. "Jimmy shouldn't have brought you here."

"Yeah, well, I think he was worried. You sitting around in the dark, brooding and hiding. You look like crap." Dean worked at a crack on the edge of the table with his thumbnail. He swallowed and managed to ask, past the way the back of his throat felt closed over, "Why wouldn't you want me here?"

"I was ashamed. I heard what Jimmy asked you," Castiel said. "The last time, as I awoke. Even before that, I was starting to understand. When they took me back to heaven, when Zachariah persuaded me that the cause he serves was just, I let myself see only the pain. I forgot about the good parts. I ruined a man's life. I betrayed Anna." Castiel's chin went up, jaw visibly tensing. "And I betrayed you."

A crow shrieked in a tree just outside the window. Dean jumped.

The understanding of what Castiel had done, and why, clicked into place, and that was enough to make the world felt like it'd shifted axis, but then another thought blasted past that one, one thing Jimmy had said in on the ride over.

"So what, you were just going to stay gone?" Dean pushed back in his chair, making a loud scraping noise. He felt hollowed-out inside. "Not a word, no nothing?"

"I would've checked in on you, from time to time." Castiel ducked his head.

"Maybe leave me cryptic messages? A vital clue, spelled out in the pickles on my cheeseburger? Wow, you really are a dick."

At that, Castiel's head went up--it seemed like the first time Dean had ever gotten that much response from him with that insult he'd used so many times.

It was difficult to even speak now; Dean rubbed the back of his neck, wondered how to say what he needed to say. He took a breath. "You think you're the only guy who's ever made a mistake? Jesus H. fuckin' Christ. Get over yourself."

"I...but I thought you--"

"You saw me," Dean said, remembering, the thick, rich scent of blood, the heat, Alastair's smooth voice. "You saw me at the rack, carving into human souls, doing things beyond nightmares. You saw me smile like an evil bastard while I did it. And then I heard you, inside my head. You said, _it's time to go, Dean. This place isn't for you._ "

"And you fought against me," Castiel leaned forward. "Struggled so hard I burned your soul gripping you."

"You were only following orders," Dean said, blinking against the sting in his eyes, his chest going tight and shit, no, he needed to hold it together.

"Partly. But it was my choice to be the one to go to you. When I saw your soul, I wanted to. There was a host of us. I overstepped my bounds, broke ranks. They reprimanded me after, even if they got what they wanted." Castiel's mouth curved into a real, full smile, and Dean felt his chest go warm. "Right from the start, you were trouble."

Feeling a little lightheaded, Dean twitched his shoulders and was almost surprised, for a moment, to see the tiny ordinary kitchen lit by daylight instead of the strange red illumination of hell.

"I wanted to see you again," Castiel said. "You'll never know how much."

It was like the feel of a tumbler in a lock, the sweet moment when it gave way. As Dean stood up and walked around the table, Castiel's expression changed, falling a few shades short of outright fear. He pushed back his chair. "What are you doing?"

"Reminding you about one of the good parts," Dean said. "There's chocolate cake and beer and Led Zeppelin, too, but this'll do for now." He put his hands on either side of Castiel's face. Castiel hissed in a breath, and Dean pulled away. "What?"

"It's like everything has an echo. Every touch. It's overwhelming."

"You want me to leave?"

"No."

Putting his hands back on Castiel's face, lighter this time, Dean leaned down and brushed his mouth lightly over Castiel's. Then he drew back.

Castiel was breathing rapidly, audible in the quiet room; Dean could feel it against his face. He leaned his forehead against Castiel's, thumbs stroking along his jawline. "How's this?" He said, voice rasping.

Then Castiel was touching him, fingers sliding through Dean's hair, exploring his face, tracing down the line of his neck. Dean felt heat rush through him as Castiel kissed him, mouth barely hovering over Dean's at first, then pressing in harder. Dean felt Castiel's pulse thrumming under his skin as he kissed him back. He had to grip the edge of the table with one hand to keep his balance as Castiel got to his feet, fingers tugging at the collar of Dean's shirt.

Dean moved his hands over Castiel's shoulders, over his chest, until his hand paused over his heart, which beat against his palm. All the while they kept on kissing. It was like some weird feedback effect where Dean thought it wasn't Castiel who felt everything magnified, but Dean. Both of them were breathing hard.

"We should--" Breaking the kiss, Dean struggled to speak. "Sam and Jimmy are waiting outside."

They moved apart. For several moments, neither of them spoke.

Then Sam's voice came muffled through the door, hesitant. "Uh...you guys okay?"

Castiel looked almost relaxed, for him. The shadows under his eyes were less--he looked _content_. No, more than that.

"Yeah, we're good," Dean called.

Head tilting, Castiel asked, "What happens next?"

"I have no idea." Dean grinned at him. "We'll make it up as we go."

  
~end

holy water ritual from here: <http://www.religionfacts.com/christianity/things/holy_water.htm>  
if you're curious, during the writing of this my mental casting for Lucifer was [this guy](http://images.google.com/images?client=safari&rls=en-us&q=bradley%20cooper&oe=UTF-8&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&hl=en&tab=wi)  



End file.
